


The World Ender

by soulofme



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Awkward Shiro (Voltron), Crushes, Dysfunctional Relationships, Eventual Sex, Family Feels, High School, M/M, Pining Shiro (Voltron), Rich Kid Keith, Shiro wears glasses, Slow Burn, Tutoring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2019-10-14 01:03:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 60,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17498696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulofme/pseuds/soulofme
Summary: Takashi Shirogane's post-high school plan looks a little something like this: East Coast, NYU, medical school.It's a solid plan, really, until a hurricane by the name of Keith Kogane threatens to mess all of that up.





	1. This Too Shall Pass

Garrison, Arizona. Population 936, too deep in the middle of nowhere to be considered on the outskirts of Phoenix. Eternal sunshine, with the kind of dry air that you swear you’re going to choke on one day.

To be quite frank, there isn’t anything worth sticking around for in this town. Kids graduate and flock off to something shinier, more fulfilling. Nobody’s meant to stay here, not for long anyway. But here is home. Has been, ever since Aunt Mei adopted Shiro and Ryou and swept them off to live with her and Grandpa Jin.

Even then, Shiro can’t help but to think there’s more to life than Garrison. There’s a whole other world out there, something that he’ll never be able to see as long as he’s stuck _here_.

Today, Shiro’s leaning against the side of Garrison High, waiting for Katie. Everyone’s been calling her Pidge since middle school because she’s like a pigeon. Ever present, easy to anger, won’t hesitate before shitting on your car. Or you.

Hence,  _Pidge_.

He’s squinting, trying to pretend that the sun isn’t trying to melt his eyes behind his glasses. He thinks, not for the first time, that it’s times like these where he wishes he had sunglasses. He’d worn them once, but Pidge told him he looked like an 80s rom-com protagonist, sans the cool, effortlessly chic vibes. Ego beyond bruised, he’d shoved the glasses off to his brother and tried not to mourn the fifteen bucks he’d forked over for them.

It’s purely a coincidence that he can see the broody, silent form of Keith Kogane from his spot. He’s parking his bike into an empty parking space, all cherry red and shined bright enough that it’ll probably burn someone’s eyes if they look at it for too long.

Maybe that’s why his gaze jerks to Keith himself, who’s walking towards Garrison Prep, backpack slung carelessly over his shoulder. His white shirt is crisp, untucked, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, no blazer in sight. He looks like a Tommy Hilfiger ad, the ones with the artfully disheveled teens who have sun shining  _just right_  on them, with bright grins and a carefree vibe to them.

Poor planning is the only reason why Garrison High and Garrison Prep share the parking lot, and why Shiro gets to even look at Keith at all. He has one full minute, Monday to Friday, unless Keith doesn’t show up.

His throat gets all tight, the way it usually does when he looks at Keith. It’s an infatuation, he knows, the kind that Mei will call “puppy love”, and it’s something Shiro definitely  _does not_  need.

He hopes it’ll pass, the way it did when he was in middle school and had a crush on Adam Wesneski. It’d been bad then, bad enough that he’d been nailed with basketballs more than he’d like to admit in gym class all because he couldn’t stop  _staring_.

He’ll be out of Garrison in less than a year, off to college on the East Coast. NYU, maybe, if he’s lucky enough. Medical school after that. He’s been thinking about it for years, had it pinned on his wish board ever since he was old enough to think about it.

So, no, Shiro doesn’t need, nor want, Keith.  _This too shall pass_. The motto of the year.

“Shirogane!” Pidge is right there, standing in front of him, all five feet of endless snark and scathing insults of her.

“Hey,” he says, because his brain is still offline. He pretends to not hear Pidge’s snort, and lets himself be dragged off into the building.

“Way above your pay grade,” she says, jerking her chin in Keith’s general direction. “And I’m not talking about the bike.”

It stings, for one horrible second.  _This too shall pass_.

Still, even with Pidge dragging him off to class like the one-woman-army she is, he finds himself glancing over his shoulder, just to get one more look.

But Keith’s gone, and there’s nothing left of him other than his brilliantly red bike. Above his pay grade, he reminds himself, but it doesn’t help.

Not even a little bit.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s a quarter to five, and Shiro’s at soccer practice. Someone hurls the ball at him, and without his glasses it just looks like a blur of black and white. A blur that, with each passing second, inches closer and closer to his face until  _boom!_

Impact.

“Shirogane!” Coach Iverson screeches, still butchering his name as if he hasn’t been on the team since freshman year. “Stop daydreaming!”

And Shiro tries, honest to God he does, but every time his mind wanders he sees a flash of red and keeps thinking  _artfully disheveled_.

He’s got it bad. Bad,  _bad_ , like the kind of bad that people never recover from. It makes him nauseous to the point that he stops, right there in the middle of the field, with the sun beating on his back, sweat soaking the collar of his jersey. He smells grass, thick and pungent, and wonders what  _Keith_  smells like.

No, no. Stop that. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too—

_Bam!_

Soccer ball, meet chest. He grunts with the pain and falls to his knees, wheezing, wondering if his lungs have somehow burst.

“Shirogane!” Iverson says again, angrier than before. “Get the hell outta there!”

And so Shiro limps to the sidelines, where he spends the rest of practice trying to make NYU rhyme with medical school.

After practice, freshly showered and dressed in the softest pair of sweats he owns that still fit him after the insane growth spurt he went through in eighth grade, Shiro sits in the flatbed of Hunk’s truck and waits. Her name’s Michelle, and she’s got flaking yellow paint and an engine that doesn’t want to start most days. She stubborn as hell, but she’s been a part of their lovely little group since Hunk got his license at sixteen. She’s taken them to IHop, the mall, the movies, and everywhere in-between.

Hunk’s at biology tutoring, helping the less gifted of their school. He’s a good guy, really, but he takes it personally if you don’t understand a concept the first time he explains it to you. Shiro’s never had to go to him for help, but he’s heard stories of how Hunk had started nervously sweating and eventually puking because he thought he was a failure of a tutor.

So there Shiro is, swinging his legs to an imaginary beat, ignoring how the sun shines right in his eyes. Sunglasses, he thinks again, no less regretful than the last.

There’s a noise behind him, like the shuffling of shoes against pavement, and Shiro finds his head swiveling to look. He wishes he hadn’t almost instantly, because it’s Keith, straight from track practice, bag slung over his shoulder.

Shiro stares at him, like always, because apparently that’s the most he’s capable of.

“Shiro!”

His heart leaps into his throat when he sees Hunk waving wildly at him, grinning, and his brain promptly screeches to a stop before speeding into  _Panic Town_. Population one, currently inhabited by Takashi Shirogane, resident fuck-up.

_Don’t look this way, don’t look this way, don’t—_

God must hate him, or whatever being is up there in the sky, because Keith looks right at him. And everything turns into liquid, and Shiro feels like he’s wading through ten feet of goo, like a swimming pool that’s been filled with slime. He waits, and waits, and keeps on waiting, but nothing happens. No fireworks, no sudden realization where Keith decides Shiro is worth his time.

Keith gets on his motorcycle, revs the engine, and peels out of the parking lot. Shiro’s not sure he imagines the dust cloud he leaves behind.

Hunk reaches him then, seemingly out of breath.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says. “We ran over a bit.”

“It’s fine,” Shiro says, mouth drier than the desert that surrounds them. Hunk beams at him.

 

 

 

 

After soccer practice, Shiro finds himself at 7-Eleven, working the six to midnight shift. He slumps behind the counter and watches as the flood of eager-eyed prep school kids come in for their Friday night fix of cheap beer. 7-Eleven is apparently the only place in town that serves alcohol 24/7, and people flock to it like it’s a beacon of hope in the dark of the night.

Today it’s a bunch of boys, with shirts buttoned to their necks and the familiar orange and white of Garrison Prep’s uniform. They’re laughing, obnoxiously so, and Shiro’s co-worker gives a long-suffering sigh beside him.

“You got this?” Rolo says, already rising out of his seat, and Shiro hardly has the time to protest before he’s grabbing his half-eaten bologna sandwich and slinking off to the office beside the bathroom.

 _Dick_ , Shiro says. Silently, because he doesn’t have the guts to say it to Rolo’s face.

The boys dump their finds on the counter, cheap beer and cheaper cigarettes, and Shiro has to pretend like he believes their fake ID’s. In a different world, maybe the threat of “sell me this shit or I’ll call my daddy on you” won’t scare him as much as it does.

So he rings them up, flashes a plastic smile, and sends them on their merry way. They’re the first of the night, and he knows there will be many, many more. He passes the time between harried mothers trying to shut their kids up with the promise of a mediocre slushie and kids higher than the Empire State Building scouring the shelves for whatever snack will satisfy them best by doing this: checking Reddit, napping, attempting to look presentable, rinse and repeat.

He’s half-asleep when it happens, when the door slams open with a little more force then necessary, the poor bells jingling in fear above it. He sits a little straighter, about to tell off whatever dickwad has wandered into the store now, but he  _can’t_.

Because it’s Keith Kogane. He’s got a cigarette in his mouth, unlit, and he’s browsing the aisles like he doesn’t know what the hell he’s here for. He settles for a bottle of vodka and slams it onto the counter, staring at Shiro expectantly.

He’s not sure what possesses him to open his mouth and say:

“You’re seventeen.”

Keith raises an eyebrow, all cool, like the rebellious kids on television, and Shiro tries to keep it together. It’s borderline impossible.

“What?”

“You’re seventeen,” Shiro repeats, gesturing towards the alcohol. “I can’t sell you that. Legal age is twenty-one.”

It’s then that Keith leans over the counter, arms crossed onto it, eyebrow still disappearing into his hairline. Maybe this is the first time he’s been challenged. Maybe he’s never had a measly 7-Eleven worker with a crush the size of Jupiter on him try to deprive him of Friday nights full of mindless, drunken decisions.

“So?” Keith says, voice low and gritty, and Shiro wishes the Earth could produce a Shiro-sized hole and just suck him into it.

“I could lose my job,” Shiro says, because apparently his brain isn’t done embarrassing the crap out of him.

Keith snorts out a laugh. “Think I’d be doing you a favor there.”

And Shiro nearly defends 7-Eleven, really, because even though the place is a cesspool, it’s the cesspool that’s making college less of a dream and more of a reality. Not everyone is able to have parents pay their way through life.

Not that Shiro’s bitter. Of course not.

“Besides, you’re already drunk.”

Oh, great, good job Shirogane. Keith’s face does this thing then, twists up into some expression that Shiro’s never quite seen on anyone before. It looks a bit like he’s confused but also pissed, and maybe beneath that, somewhat impressed.

“What are you, a human breathalyzer?”

“No, not really,” Shiro says, frowning, and Keith rolls his eyes.

“Are you gonna sell me this shit or not?”

“No,” Shiro says, because he’s a fucking moron.

“Cool,” Keith says, standing up. He slaps the counter. “Thanks, man.”

“Uh,” Shiro starts, stammering over his words. “You should call a cab. Or something.”

“Yeah?”

“Drunk driving’s a bad idea,” Shiro adds, nodding like he’s a goddamn expert on it.

Keith smirks at him.

“Is it?”

And then he’s gone, stepping back out of the store, and Shiro slumps over the counter, trying desperately not to hate himself.

He doesn’t get to leave until twelve-thirty because Rolo’s an asshat and their boss Varkon is an even bigger one. By the time he steps outside, his eyes are burning and his stomach’s bitching up a storm.

He doesn’t expect to see Keith standing at the curb, screaming his head off at some guy. The guy sneers at him, mutters something too low for Shiro to catch, and storms off, car and all.

Keith swears, kicking a trash can, and Shiro clears his throat quietly.

“ _What_?” Keith snaps, whirling around, and all of the anger seems to bleed out of him when he realizes it’s Shiro behind him. “Jesus fuck. You’re still here?”

“You are too, apparently.”

“Yeah, well.” Keith throws his hands up. “My fucking ride just took off, so.”

“I,” Shiro starts, and has to stop because there’s a goddamn lump in his throat. “I could give you a ride. If you want. No pressure or anything.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I mean it,” Shiro says, already walking towards his car. “Where do you live, anyway?”

“Hillside.”

Oh. Right. Rich kid valley.

“It’s on my way,” Shiro lies, sliding into the driver’s seat.

Despite his offer, he’s still caught off guard when Keith drops himself into the seat beside him. Mei’s Nissan Sentra has never felt smaller, Shiro thinks. He’s eyeing the straw wrapper Ryou had shoved into the cupholder God knows how long ago when Keith leans back in his seat, arms crossed.

“Can you buckle up?” Shiro can’t help it. Safety first. Mei’s been drilling it into his head ever since he got his license.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Keith mutters under his breath. Even so, he clicks the seatbelt into place and glares at Shiro until he jerkily pulls the car out of its spot.

The ride is silent. Shiro spends most of it wondering if he smells like stale crackers, like he normally does after his shift, and decides it doesn’t matter. He’ll probably never see Keith again, up close and personal like this. It’s not like Keith will even remember him after tonight.

They drive until every neat suburban house melts into a giant mansion, with glimmering gates and fountains in the driveways. Shiro gets this twist in his stomach, this sudden lurch that reminds him that this isn’t a world he belongs to. Never will, actually.

“It’s that one, at the top of the hill,” Keith mutters.

And so Shiro dutifully drives to the top of said hill, and feels like he’s wanting to vomit when he gets a good look at Keith’s house. It’s the kind of house that would probably make it onto  _MTV Cribs_.

There’s a black iron gate, and in front of it is a shiny blue Lambo. Lambo, like Lamborghini, because of  _course_  there’s going to be one of those around here.

Keith gets out without a word, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the whole car. He saunters up to the gate, where the Lamborghini’s door flies open. Shiro squints and can kind of make out the form of Lance or Liam. He doesn’t remember the guy’s name, just that he’s friends with Keith.

They’re shouting, Keith’s throwing his arms up, Lance/Liam is shoving him, and then Keith’s disappearing behind the gate and Lance/Liam is…walking towards  _him_?

Shiro almost,  _almost_  puts his car into gear and makes a break for it, but then his window’s being tapped on and he has no choice but to roll it down.

“How much do I owe you?” Lance/Liam asks (it’s Lance, isn’t it? That’s what Shiro’s going to go with).

“What?”

“I doubt that jackass remembered to pay, so,” Lance pauses, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. “How much?”

And then it hits him like a ton of bricks. Lance thinks he’s an  _Uber_  driver.

“I’m not…” Shiro starts. “I’m not an Uber.”

“What?” Lance looks severely confused. There’s the silent question of  _then who the hell are you?_  hanging in the air between them.

“I’m Shiro,” he says, feeling like an absolute idiot. “I work at 7-Eleven.”

“Shiro?”

“Yes.”

“From 7-Eleven?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“ _Shiro_  from fucking  _7-Eleven_ ,” Lance says, again, shaking his head. “Fuck. Sorry, man. I swear he’s not usually this bad.”

“It’s fine,” Shiro says, nodding to himself like that’ll make everything just  _dandy_.

“Sorry again,” Lance says, stepping back. “Thanks for bringing him home.”

There’s no reason for him to continue loitering in front of Keith’s house, so Shiro backs away from the gate and gives Lance a half-assed wave before doing a broken U-turn back the way he came.

Shiro from 7-Eleven. That’s a thing, apparently. He’s not sure what the hell it means, or why Lance seemed so pissed about it. It’s probably best he doesn’t know. Maybe Keith called him after their confrontation in the store, and now they both decided they hated him for being an upstanding citizen.

Or  _something_.

It sounds stupid, even to himself, and Shiro has to listen to his thoughts on a daily basis. When he finally pulls into his driveway, Mei’s throwing open the door and standing on the porch.

“Takashi Shirogane!” she yells, loud enough that her voice echoes around them. “You better have a  _damn_  good explanation, mister!”

Shiro throws his head back and groans.

Mei doesn’t look any less pissed by the time he makes it to the door.

“You’re late,” she says, impatiently.

“I…” he trails off, wondering what to say. “I was dropping a friend off home.”

“Matt?” Mei asks, starting to look a little less like she wants to rip Shiro’s head clean off his body.

“Uh, yeah. Matt,” he says, nodding vigorously.

Mei sighs and pushes him inside. Shiro hangs his jacket up on the rack and hands her the car keys. Mei drops them into the bowl by the doorway and disappears down the hall.

“Hungry?” she asks.

“Not really,” he says, even though his stomach is still growling.

She says something else, something that he doesn’t catch because he’s racing up the stairs and locking himself in the comfort of his room. Four walls, Jurassic Park posters covering three of them, Harry Potter on the fourth because Ryou keeps insisting it’s amazing and Shiro never knows how to say no to him.

He flicks on the light and freezes. Screams, because Grandpa Jin is curled up on his bed, his gout cream lying by his side, snoring.

“Grandpa!”

“Where’s the fire?!” Jin shoots up like a rocket, eyes wild, hair a fluffy mess on the top of his head. He squints at Shiro. “It’s about time you came home. My feet are dry.”

Shiro bites back a sigh.

“You couldn’t have asked Ryou?”

“Oh, I see,” Jin says, nodding to himself. “Takashi’s a big boy now, huh? Too big to rub lotion on his old man’s feet. I’ll remember that when I die.”

“You’re not dying anytime soon.”

“That’s what you think.”

They have a stare off that lasts approximately six seconds before Shiro drops onto the bed and squeezes a dollop of lotion into his palm. Grandpa Jin is quiet for all of ten seconds before he says:

“So what’s biting you?”

“What?”

“You’ve got that look on your face,” Jin says. “You’re brooding again, aren’t you?”

“I’m not,” Shiro says.

“I’m old, not blind,” his grandfather replies. His expression softens, and he grips Shiro’s wrist in his wrinkled, calloused hands. “Something happen? Bad day at work?”

“Something like that,” Shiro replies. He thinks of Keith, drunk out of his mind, ten levels of pissed, and then there’s an elephant sitting on his chest, cutting off his air flow.

“It’s alright,” Jin says. “Just be glad you don’t have gout.”

Shiro pulls a face, unable to stop himself from doing so.

“Thanks, Grandpa.”

Jin pats his arm and stands up with a groan.

“Anytime, kiddo. Now hand that over here, before it gets lost in this pigsty.”

Shiro scowls then, handing over the cream. His grandfather leaves and Shiro drops back onto his bed, glaring up at the ceiling. Maybe it’s just him being paranoid, but the cracks look so much bigger than they had this morning.

Hopefully, if he’s lucky, his ceiling will crumble and smother him in his sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s Monday morning, which is code for  _chaos_  in the Shirogane household. It starts at breakfast, when Shiro settles at the table with a bowl of cereal and his phone, just as Ryou storms in like he’s got a bone to pick with him.

“You’re selfish.”

“You don’t even  _like_  Frosted Flakes,” Shiro says, exasperated, and Ryou rolls his eyes and tears off a chunk of Mei’s world-famous vegan blueberry muffins with a snarl.

“ _You_  don’t like Frosted Flakes!”

“Since when?”

“Since always!”

“What are you two arguing about now?” Mei asks, coming into the kitchen.

She’s wearing a pair of sparkly bunny slippers. She turns the coffee maker on as she passes it, standing in front of the cabinet for a long moment before selecting the SpongeBob thermos Shiro’s had since he was eight. She does this every morning, like she’ll suddenly switch it up and try something new, but she never does. Shiro’s mug is  _her_ mug. 

“Takashi’s selfish.”

“Ryou’s a filthy liar.”

“Filthy liar?” Ryou echoes, rolling his eyes. “God, even your insults suck. No wonder you have no friends.”

“Three.”

“What?”

“I have three friends.”

“No way.”

“Why is that so hard to believe?” Shiro asks. “I’m likeable!”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Hey, enough,” Mei says from the kitchen.

“What’s a man gotta do to get some sleep around here?” Grandpa Jin yells from somewhere upstairs. “Have a stroke?”

“Dad!” Mei calls, slamming her palm to her forehead. “Not funny!”

Jin breaks into loud, obnoxious laughter that promptly turns into wheezing.

The coffee maker beeps, and Aunt Mei fills the thermos to the top before she comes back into the dining room.

“Are you two going to be okay?” she asks.

“Depends,” Ryou says, ripping another piece of his muffin off. “Is Takashi going to be an asshole?”

“I’m not an asshole.”

“Right. And the Nile ain’t just a river in Egypt.”

“ _Enough_ ,” Mei says, narrowing her eyes. “I gotta go. Love you both, bye!”

“Bye,” Shiro murmurs halfheartedly, staring down at his soggy bowl of cereal.

After Ryou calls him selfish for the third time that morning, Shiro gets his bike from the garage and pedals as hard as he can to Garrison High. He likes using Mei’s car and all, but there’s a certain kind of freedom that comes from taking his bike. Sure, it’s not a bright red  _motorcycle_ , but since when have mountain bikes been uncool?

Since Keith Kogane, apparently.

And oh, look, there he goes again. Really, all Shiro wants is one,  _one_  day where he doesn’t think about him. A day without Tommy Hilfiger good looks and Garrison Prep and  _mansions_.

The parking lot looks denser than usual today, and Shiro realizes it’s because arguing with Ryou has eaten up a fair chunk of his time. He curses, shoving his bike into the rack, yanking the helmet off, when there’s a hand on his shoulder.

He thinks it’s Pidge, or maybe even Matt, but when he turns around it’s not. It’s Lance.

 _Garrison Prep_  Lance. Keith Kogane’s friend Lance.

“Hey,” Shiro drawls. Lance looks at him for all of two seconds before he releases this dramatic sigh.

“Look, I’m really sorry about last night.”

“It’s cool, really,” Shiro says, trying to not-so-subtly glance at his watch. Five minutes until the late bell rings. Hopefully this won’t take too long.

“There’s a party this weekend,” Lance says out of nowhere. “You should come. Bring your friends.”

And then he’s gone, walking off to the other side of the parking lot. The side where he  _belongs_. It takes a few long, torturous moments for Shiro to realize what the hell he even just heard. But he can’t protest that he doesn’t party by then, because Lance is gone and he’s  _late_.

 

 

 

 

 

He tells everyone about it at lunch, starting with last night at work and ending this morning in the parking lot, and Pidge pretends to look thoughtful before she cuffs him on the ear.

“You’re an idiot,” she proclaims, sounding so sure of herself that Shiro doesn’t want to consider how much time she spends thinking that about him.

“He’s not an idiot,” Matt says, Shiro’s light and hope, until he adds, “Maybe a fool? Something less severe.”

“Shiro’s trying his best,” Hunk says, like the gentle soul he is.

“I’m literally right here, guys,” Shiro says with a scowl, barely managing to dodge the fry Pidge throws at him.

“Are you going?” Matt asks.

“No,” Shiro says, furrowing his eyebrows. “I don’t go to parties.”

“Right,” Pidge pipes up then, nodding seriously. “ _Because, like, NYU_.”

Her voice is exaggeratedly deep, and she makes Shiro sound like some kind of caveman who got dropped into the middle of LA and left to socialize with valley girls. He kind of gets lost in the image of a Neanderthal hanging around with Katelyn’s and Jennifer’s who  _like, can’t even_ , until he remembers he’s supposed to be offended and defending his honor because no one else at this table will.

“Okay, first of all, I do  _not_  sound like that.”

“He’s right,” Matt agrees seriously. “You’ve gotta put a little more  _oomph_  in it. Make sure you phrase everything like it’s a question.”

“Oh, funny. Really. You guys are  _hilarious_ ,” Shiro says, punching Matt’s bicep when he pretends to take a bow.

“Can we get back to the subject at hand?” Hunk says, Shiro’s knight in shining armor come five minutes too late. “Shiro got invited to a party. That’s great! That is great, right?”

He looks at Shiro for approval.

“You guys are free to go,” Shiro says, shrugging. “Lance said I could bring my friends.”

“I’d rather choke myself, thanks,” Pidge chirps brightly, just as Matt clamps a hand over her mouth and leans forward.

“You bet your fine ass we’re going,” Matt says, smile full of teeth. “And you’re coming with us.”

Shiro’s going to argue against that, really he is, but:

“You think I’m fine?”

“Oh, Shiro,” Matt finally releases Pidge. Everyone ignores her as she pretends to gasp for breath. “Do you even  _own_  a mirror?”

“Well yeah, but—”

“Rhetorical question, my dude,” Matt interrupts him, holding up a hand. “We’re going. No arguments.”

“I can’t,” Hunk says. “I, uh, have a stomachache.”

Matt narrows his eyes.

“When do you  _not_? And what, this stomachache is gonna last all week?”

“Okay, rude! I have a delicate stomach, you know this,” Hunk says. “Also, parties? Crowds? Probably illegal substances?”

“You mean a great time?”

“Oh, sure,” Pidge drawls. “Nothing screams  _good times_  like obnoxious drunks.”

“Alright, you know what?” Matt says, slamming his hands down onto the table. “I’m going to have fun, and anyone who wants to have fun with me is welcome to join.”

They all end up going, in the end. Hunk parks Michelle behind a seemingly endless line of Lambos and Ferrari’s and whatever the hell rich kids drive. There’s a bunch of them running across the lawn, screaming their heads off like they’re having the time of their lives.

Shiro flinches at a particularly shrill screech.

“Well, we’re here. We’ve seen a rich kid party. Time to go.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Matt says, grabbing him by the lapel of his jacket. “You’re going to let loose tonight.  _One night_. That’s all I’m asking for.”

Matt pushes him off the flatbed then, and Shiro nearly twists his ankle trying to get his footing. He glares at Matt, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Matt smiles innocently at him.

_This too shall pass. This too shall pass._

Somewhere between the car and the front door, Shiro loses his friends. He tries to quell the spike of anxiety that races up his spine and delicately edges his way through the crowded living room. He’s not sure where he’s going, and he keeps his eyes on the ground. Marble tiles.  _Nice_.

When he finally makes it out to the back, he takes in a big gulp of air. It doesn’t smell like sweat or booze out here, so  _score_.

He picks his way through kids lounging on beach towels until he reaches the lake. It glimmers faintly under the moonlight, and he nearly shouts with join when he sees the bench lined up in front of it is empty. Shiro drops himself down and closes his eyes, pressing his fingers against his throbbing temples.

His peace lasts for all of three seconds before he hears someone coming up behind him.

“This seat taken?”

Every cell in Shiro’s body freezes before going into overdrive. Shiro nods, even though it’s so dark that Keith probably doesn’t even see it. It doesn’t matter in the end, because he hops over the back of the bench and sits squarely beside Shiro. There’s another unlit cigarette in his mouth.

“Nine out of ten cases of lung cancer are from smoking,” Shiro prattles off.

It’d be great to drown himself right about now. Get up, walk into the lake, and just keep walking. He’s seriously considering doing it until he hears Keith snort. Or laugh. Or maybe even a mixture of the two?

“I’m trying to quit,” Keith says.

“Oh.”

There’s a long stretch of silence between them that Shiro makes no attempt at filling. Things tend to work out better for him when he keeps his mouth shut.

“Thanks for the other night, by the way,” Keith says, so low that Shiro nearly misses it. “I’m kind of a pain in the ass when I’m drunk, so.”

“You weren’t that bad,” Shiro says, because he really can’t help himself. “It was fine.”

“Yeah, okay,” Keith mutters, not sounding like he believes that for a second. “Sometimes I don’t know how to deal with shit.”

“School?”

“That, and some other stuff,” Keith says.

Wow, would you look at that. A real conversation with  _Keith Kogane_. Shiro might just piss himself.

But then Keith stands up, and Shiro recognizes it as probably the last time they’ll ever talk like this again. What reason will Keith have to talk to him after this anyway? It’s not like they’re friends. They’re from two completely different worlds.

And yet, Shiro’s standing on his feet so fast that Keith pauses and turns to look at him.

“I tutor in my free time,” he blurts out, mouth working over the words so fast that he barely understands them himself.

It gets Keith to stop, though, and turn around to look at him.

“Really?”

Shiro nods so fast he almost gets whiplash.

“I could help you. With the school stuff.”

“Help me,” Keith echoes, like it’s a foreign concept. Shiro gets the feeling that he’s about to be brutally rejected, but then Keith shrugs. “Fine. Whatever.”

“What?” Shiro squeaks out.

“Give me your phone.”

“Huh?”

“Give. Me. Your. Phone.”

It’s not a question. More like a demand. A demand that ends with the silent threat of pain if Shiro doesn’t fork over his beloved Nokia.

He hands it to Keith with shaking hands, and he watches Keith’s face glow blue as he punches something in. He snaps the Nokia shut and tosses it back to Shiro, who fumbles with it before finally tucking it into his pocket.

“See you,” Keith says, giving him a half-assed wave that still manages to make his throat feel dry.

Shiro doesn’t know how long he stands there staring after Keith, but it must be a long time because Pidge finds him and begins dragging him by the elbow.

“I’ve been looking for you for hours,” she hisses. “What were you doing?”

“Nothing!” he says, too fast, too defensive, but she’s too pissed about whatever it is this time to question him.

She ushers him into Michelle, where they wait another three minutes for Hunk and Matt to emerge from the ridiculously large mansion. Hunk slides into the driver’s seat while a drunk Matt stumbles to the flatbed.

“Best party ever,” he slurs, before passing out onto Pidge’s lap. She glares daggers at her brother’s head but makes no move to push him off.

It’s straight home after that, where Shiro has to tiptoe upstairs to avoid Mei’s wrath. Grandpa Jin isn’t waiting in his room tonight, so Shiro curls right under the covers and tries not to think too much about Keith.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, and it takes a few minutes of wiggling to get it out. There’s a single text waiting for him from a number he doesn’t recognize.

_7 pm at my house -Keith_

Holy shit. He has Keith Kogane’s number. His heart starts pounding in his chest the longer he thinks about that.

This too shall pass, he tells himself. But it doesn’t calm him down. Nothing will, now that  _Keith Kogane_  texted him.

“Holy shit!”

“What’s wrong with you?” Ryou asks, poking his head into the room.

“Nothing!”

Ryou growls and slams the door shut. Shiro grabs the nearest pillow and buries his face into it before he  _screams_.


	2. The Birds and the Bees

It’s Saturday night, and Shiro’s supposed to tutor Keith today.

It doesn’t feel any more real than it had last night. He checks his phone again, just to make sure that he hadn’t imagined it, but no, Keith’s message is still there. He’s even on Shiro’s contact list now. Just as  _Keith_ , because Shiro’s not nearly as ridiculous as the people around him insist he is.

“Takashi?”

Shiro’s head jerks up from his phone. He shoves it into his pocket and tries to act normal. Aunt Mei is leaning across the table towards him, her eyebrows pinched together in concern.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Yup, fine, totally great,” he says, voice jumping up a whole octave. Ryou rolls his eyes and spears a green bean with his fork.

“What’s wrong with that one?” Grandpa Jin asks, shuffling into the dining room. He thumps his fist against his back, yawning widely as he does. “He’s doing that chicken nonsense again.”

Shiro barely stops himself from pouting. The “chicken nonsense” is a phrase Grandpa Jin coined when Shiro was seven. He’s always been a bit of a cautious kid (coward, Jin always says, with a scowl), and maybe sometimes he avoids taking risks (“Just stay in your box of boring, why don’t you, kid?”), and hell, maybe he can’t help but to approach life like it’s gonna screw him over one day (“That’s the point, Takashi!”).

But he’s not a  _chicken_ , goddamn it. Doesn’t matter how much he protests it, though, because Jin could probably write a novel on all the times Shiro has supposedly disappointed him with his “severe lack of a backbone.” Honestly, you haven’t lived until a seventy-two-year-old man destroys your entire existence over dinner once a week. Sometimes more, if he’s feeling particularly vicious.

“There’s nothing wrong with me, Grandpa.”

“I beg to differ,” Jin settles into the chair beside Mei and helps himself to a generous portion of mashed potatoes. “Who sleeps without the blankets?”

“I get hot at night!”

“You’re hiding something,” Jin says, pointing at Shiro with his fork. “I don’t trust people who sleep without the blankets.”

“Okay, Dad, thank you,” Mei says, her voice firm and her eyes all but glaring daggers at Jin. “Are you sure you’re okay Takashi? You seem a little…antsy.”

“Antsy,” Jin says, nodding to himself. “Great job on the smashed potatoes, by the way.”

“They’re  _mashed_  potatoes, Grandpa,” Ryou corrects with a groan.

 “That’s what they want you to think!”

“Okay, what? Who the hell are  _they_  supposed to be?”

“Hey, watch it,” Mei says, giving Ryou a pointed look. “And Dad, please. Not tonight.”

“ _Not tonight_  she says,” Jin mumbles, disgruntled. “They prey on the weak. They’re going to get you first.”

“He’s lost it,” Ryou whispers to himself. “That’s it, he’s done for.”

“Alright, everyone regroup!” Mei announces, clapping her hands.

“I’m fine,” Shiro says, feeling exhausted.

Why can’t they have a normal dinner for once? Without Grandpa Jin’s wild conspiracy theories and Ryou’s bitterness and his own inability to control his emotions? Honestly, he doesn’t understand how Aunt Mei handles the three of them. Maybe it’s an only female in the house thing? Some kind of evolutionary adaptation?

“Okay, if you say so,” Mei says, breaking his train of thought.

Shiro swallows hard, palms growing sweaty when he thinks of his Nokia, tucked neatly into his pocket. It feels like it’s on fire, like it might burn a hole through his pocket, and then his skin, maybe through muscle and bone until bam! A hole. Right through his thigh.

How would that even work? Wouldn’t people question that hole? Like _, hey, bud, nice to meet you, what the fuck is wrong with your leg?_ Because Shiro would probably ask questions. Many questions.

Dinner finishes with Mei presenting a tray of chocolate chip chia seed cookies and Grandpa Jin faking a heart attack to avoid eating them. When Aunt Mei bursts into tears and Shiro and Ryou sit there trying to figure out what to do, Grandpa Jin shakes his head and reaches for his cup of coffee.

“Mei, everything goes to you when I die. These two freeloaders can suck it.”

“Dad!”

“What? I know what that means, before you ask. This old man knows how to use the Internet.”

Grandpa Jin looks so pleased with himself that Shiro almost,  _almost_  laughs. But the thought of his grandfather spending time in the office behind their prehistoric computer searching up slang makes him feel a little queasy.

He checks his watch, just to make sure, and nearly passes out right there. 7:05. He’s late.

“Shit!”

He’s standing up so fast that his chair knocks back. The house goes silent. Shiro swallows hard and rights his chair. He digs into his pocket and drops a quarter into the swear jar that no one cares enough to fill except for him.

“He has a date.” Grandpa Jin announces, like he’s so sure of it, and Shiro chokes on his own spit.

Everyone looks at Jin, who rises from his seat and grabs Shiro’s shoulders.

“Son, I think it’s time I told you about the birds and the bees—”

“Okay, no, not doing that,” Shiro says, squirming out of Jin’s hold. “Also, it’s not a date. We’re studying, I’m his tutor!”

“Studying,” Mei repeats flatly.

“That’s what the kids are calling it these days,” Jin says sagely. “Memorizing  _biology_ , experimenting with  _chemistry_.”

“This is great, honestly, but I think I’m going to go drink bleach now,” Ryou says, flashing them all a plastic smile before disappearing upstairs to his room. The door slams shut hard enough to rattle the entire house, and that’s the exact moment Shiro makes his escape.

“I’ll be home by ten, love you bye!”

“But the birds Takashi, the  _birds_!” Jin calls, just as Shiro closes the door behind himself.

He leans against it for a moment, willing the blush staining his cheeks to fade. It’s times like these where he wishes Grandpa Jin had  _some_  kind of filter, but that would probably never happen. He’d go on and on about censorship until he was allowed to speak freely again.

He grabs his bike from the side of the house and begins pedaling to Keith’s place. Everything feels different this time around. He swears that he’s being watched, as if everyone in Hillside can tell that he doesn’t belong. He pretends he’s a spy infiltrating the enemy’s base until he reaches Keith’s gate and stares at it for a long, long moment. It’s locked, of course, and the only way to Keith’s house is through it.

 He reaches into his pocket to call Keith, but his phone’s dead. Like black screen, not even a flicker of light  _dead_.

“Fantastic,” he says, shoving the stupid thing back into his pocket.

He could yell, maybe, but the rest of the community probably wouldn’t like that. Shiro glances around the gate, trying to find a ledge or something he can hop over, but there’s nothing. High security and all that jazz.

“Alright, here goes nothing.”

He’s never climbed a fence before. It’s not like there’s ever been a reason to. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and Shiro’s watched enough cop shows to figure out how this goes. One foot in front of the other, keep your balance, don’t get your clothes stuck on the top. Easy does it.

Except Shiro’s scared of heights. Has been since he was eight and got stuck at the top of a rollercoaster. Aunt Mei had screamed encouragements to him from the ground, but Shiro still ended up pissing himself. The incident made the top ten most embarrassing moments of his life. It’s quite an achievement, considering how much dumb shit he says on a daily basis.

But this? Easily number one. Especially when he loses his grip and falls flat on his back. He screams, a totally not pathetic scream, and tries not to curl into fetal position.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Oh, no. No, no no—

Shiro peeks up from beneath his bangs. Keith’s standing in front of him, wearing a pair of baggy sweats and a tank top with arm holes big enough that Shiro can see a flash of his ribs. His mouth goes dry at the sight and he quickly averts his eyes to Keith’s face.

Keith’s frowning, glaring down at him like he’s a goddamn idiot.

“The gate was closed,” Shiro offers meekly.

Keith rolls his eyes and heads back towards the house. Shiro scrambles up, brushing dirt off his pants and trying to regain whatever shreds of his dignity he has left.

“You can leave your shoes over there,” Keith says, jerking his chin towards the rack to his right once Shiro steps through the doorway.

Shiro stares down at his Vans, caked with mud in some places, the laces a greyish white. Like the moon. Only a hell of a lot uglier. He feels like he’s committing a crime when he shoves them in beside a pair of dress shoes shined so bright that he can see his reflection in them.

Which, wow, hey. There’s a twig in his hair.

 _Real charming, Shirogane_.

Shiro plucks the twig out and tucks it into his pocket, right beside the piece of shit he calls a phone.

“My room’s up here,” Keith says, already beginning to climb the obnoxiously large stairs.

Shiro’s mind goes blank. Just  _nopes_  the fuck out of here. It leaves him gaping at Keith’s slowly disappearing back before he says:

“We’re going to your  _room_?”

There’s this shrill tone his voice takes on, one he’d probably be mortified about if he could somehow think of something other than  _Keith_  and  _Shiro_  and  _room_. Because, granted, he’s eighteen years old, and when he imagines himself in a room with someone attractive, there’s a lot less school and lot more…stuff.

Stuff that make his ears burn even now.

Keith stops, turning towards him with a cocked brow.

“Problem?”

“Nope, no problem, let’s go,” Shiro says, nodding vigorously and attempting to match Keith’s pace without somehow causing himself to tumble down the stairs.

Shiro finds himself glancing around at the rest of the house as they walk. It’s all sharp lines and shiny marble, with wide, arching doorways and floor to ceiling windows. There’s an impersonal feel to everything, though. There aren’t any family pictures, no stray socks lingering in the hallway or dents in the wall. Everything is perfect and clean, as if no one even lives here at all.

He doesn’t know why it makes him feel strange, like he’s walking into something he shouldn’t. Keith opens the door to his room and Shiro stops to take it in for a second. Where the rest of the house is white and cream and light grey, Keith’s room is black and red. It looks like any other teenage boy’s room, with the Nirvana posters plastered onto the wall and the…punching bag in the corner?

“You box?” Keith asks him.

Shiro tears his gaze away from the punching bag. Keith’s back is to him, and he’s bent over searching through his backpack. Shiro definitely does not look at his ass,  _no way Jose_. He’s not a lecherous pervert, for Christ’s sake. A teenage boy with raging hormones, sure, but he has standards.  _Boundaries_.

“Uh, no.” Nice, Shirogane. Smooth as chunky peanut butter.

“Didn’t think so,” Keith asks, sounding somewhat amused. “You should try it.”

“Yeah, sure,” Shiro says, because of  _course_  he will. He’d probably hit himself more than the punching bag, honestly.

Keith throws himself on his bed, tossing a folder at Shiro. Shiro tries to catch it, honestly, but there’s a reason Coach Iverson hardly lets him off the bench during games. He can’t catch, or kick, or hell, even walk most days.

“I’m failing English,” Keith says flatly.

“That’s okay, we can work on that,” Shiro says, finally righting the folder and flipping through it.

Most of what Keith writes isn’t bad, objectively. It’s more that he sees the question, flips it off, and writes whatever the hell he wants. Shiro pauses over a particular line at the end of one of Keith’s essays, something about the theory of love in relation to a certain book. Shiro skims the instructions, more interested in what Keith has to say.

_Romance and love are some bullshit concepts people make up to cope with the ever-disappointing reality that is life._

Punctuated with a passive-aggressive smiley-face that’s crossed out with a big red X and a reminder to  _see me in my office, Kogane_.

“What’s the verdict?” Keith asks, still laying flat on his back. Shiro jumps, so used to the silence that he’s almost forgotten that Keith’s here. Grave mistake on his part, because now his heart’s beating like a toddler on one of those little kid drums. All violently, with no proper rhythm.

“It’s not bad.”

Keith smirks. “I failed that paper.”

“Yeah, but it’s not  _bad_ ,” Shiro says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s got a flow to it, and you’re making a point. Maybe not the right point, but there’s a backbone to this.”

“Why are you even here?”

“What?” Shiro asks dumbly. Keith raises himself on his elbow, staring at Shiro with the kind of intensity that makes him feel sweaty all over.

“No one helps me. Ever.”

“You’re probably not hanging around the right people,” Shiro says, a poor attempt at a joke. Neither of them laughs. Surprise, surprise.

“People always want something,” Keith mutters, flopping against the mattress. “What the fuck do  _you_  want?”

“Nothing.”

He thinks, then, that if he says it firmly, like he believes it down to his toes, it’ll be true. Shiro doesn’t expect anything from Keith. He’s gotten used to him being nothing more than his dream boy, a figment of his imagination, some great big star in the sky that he’ll never be able to touch.

But Keith doesn’t believe it. Because that would be  _easy_ , and that’s just not a word that Shiro generally uses to describe his meager existence. He hides his flinch at Keith’s derisive snort and focuses his gaze pointedly on the papers spread out on the plush carpet of Keith’s floor.

He points out how Keith can streamline his paper, fixing things here, nudging things there, and by the end of it he can convince Keith to rewrite a paragraph or two. They move on to calc next, which Keith looks at it like it’s the devil.

“It’s less scary than it seems,” Shiro tries to convince him.

“For  _you_ , maybe.”

“It’s not that you don’t know it. It’s that you don’t apply yourself.”

“Well, that’s probably because none of this shit’s ever going to matter again.”

Shiro takes a deep breath, ignoring the petulant tone Keith’s pulled out of nowhere. Somehow he’s migrated down from the bed to the floor, and now they’re sitting side by side, shoulder to shoulder, and Shiro feels a little too hot around the collar for his liking.

“You don’t know that,” Shiro says, staring at the Nirvana poster on the wall opposite to him, Kurt Cobain’s grim expression holding his attention so he doesn’t have to look at Keith. “Maybe you’ll see it again in college.”

“College. Right, yeah.”

“What?” Shiro does look at him, then, because there’s the ever-sour note of bitterness lingering in the air between them now. “I’m sure you have plans for it, right?”

“Yeah. I plan to not  _go_ ,” Keith says.

It’s a simple answer, and maybe Shiro would’ve left it at that under any other circumstances. It’s not unusual for someone not to go to college. Maybe even if they’re Garrison Prep. But there feels like there’s something more to this, something that Shiro isn’t sure he should be poking around in.

“Oh. That’s cool.”

“You sound real sure about that,” Keith mumbles. He leans back against his bed and cocks a brow at Shiro. “What about you? What’s your big plan?”

“Uh, NYU,” Shiro answers. It’s a preprogrammed answer, one that he’s been spitting out for  _years_ , but somehow it feels wrong now. “Med school.”

“Med school,” Keith echoes with a whistle. “Good fucking luck.”

Shiro nods, unsure of what else to say. They lapse into another silence, where there’s nothing but the scratch of pen against paper. Shiro has his own work pulled out now, and he’s skimming through an article from history, jotting down whatever points seem interesting or relatively important.

He doesn’t know why he looks up, or why he can’t look anywhere but at Keith when he does. He’s staring at the textbook on his lap, one hand tapping against the edge of it, the other wrapped around the pen. The end of it is between his pursed lips, and Shiro gulps when they tighten  _just so_  around the top.

His history textbook feels heavy on his lap, then, and he’s scrambling to his feet.

“I, uh, have to use the bathroom,” he manages to get out.

“It’s over there,” Keith says, jerking his chin towards a door at the end of his massive room without glancing away from his work.

Shiro speed walks there, where he shuts the door and rests heavily against it. He stares down at his crotch, as the godforsaken boner that just  _won’t go away_. Humiliation blooms in his stomach and he pinches the bridge of his nose.

Now is not the time. There isn’t really a  _good_  time for an inappropriate boner, but when he’s tutoring his crush since forever,  _now is not the fucking time_.

It takes him thinking about Grandpa Jin’s gout cream and wrinkly feet to will Shiro Jr away, and even then it almost resurfaces when he thinks about the birds and the bees. Which shouldn’t even be something that turns him on, now that he thinks about it. Because he just keeps thinking about fifth grade, when Mrs. Williams separated the boys and the girls and went on this long lecture about testosterone and body hair and—

Oh, God. Just stop now, please.

“Thanks for nothing, Grandpa,” he mutters darkly.

His face looks like a wreck when he checks his reflection. Keith’s bright as hell lights have a way of making him look paler than usual. The flush on his cheeks is obnoxiously obvious, and no amount of cold water seems to be able to cool it.

He stumbles out of the bathroom a short while later, attempting to act chill. Keith’s actually working now, his pen scribbling across his paper. Shiro gets into a sort of monotonous routine then. Read, write, ignore Keith. Read, write, ignore Keith. Over and over until he gets his damn sanity back.

Shiro has to take a break after a while, his wrist aching from all of the writing. He spots a guitar propped up behind the punching bag. It’s bright red, and it has a long scratch across the middle of it. It looks well-used, like someone has been practicing on it for years.

“You play guitar?” Shiro asks, unable to help himself.

He watches Keith freeze, gripping his pen hard enough that his knuckles whiten. He’s clenching his jaw and Shiro feels his entire body go cold.

“No,” he says sharply. He doesn’t explain, and Shiro’s not dumb enough to push.

“Sorry,” Shiro says, when Keith’s grip loosens around the pen.

“Stop that.”

“Speaking?”

“Apologizing,” Keith snaps. “Say it when you mean it. It doesn’t mean anything if you don’t.”

He almost says sorry again out of reflex, but manages to bite his tongue. Hard, judging by the taste of blood, but it works.

He and Keith wrap things up a few hours later, and Keith walks him downstairs. Shiro fumbles with his shoelaces, his fingers feeling too big, too clumsy. He stands up after a while, searching for words that just don’t want to come.

“Thanks,” Keith says shortly.

And then Shiro’s stepping outside, and the door’s closing behind him, and Keith’s gone. He feels heavy, like there’s a sudden weight pressing down on him. He pretends for a brief second that he’s Atlas, holding up the Earth, but decides that’s a pretty shitty job and quickly banishes the image.

He takes the ride back home slow, staring at his feet pedaling. He keeps seeing Keith’s face in his mind. Keith pissed, Keith laughing, just… _Keith_. Like a goddamn song on loop.

Grandpa Jin’s the only one awake when Shiro gets home. He jumps over the back of the couch and settles beside him, pretending that he understands whatever episode of  _M*A*S*H_ is currently playing.

“How’d the date go?”

“It wasn’t a date, Grandpa,” Shiro mumbles tiredly.

“With the look you had on your face, there’s no way it wasn’t,” Jin replies.

Shiro closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the couch.

“Grandpa?”

“Hm?”

“What do you do when someone has no idea you exist?”

He doesn’t mean for his voice to crack. There’s silence for a while, nothing other than the television, and he worries for a moment that Grandpa Jin hasn’t heard him. He’s preparing to repeat himself when he hears the soft clearing of a throat.

“How do you know they have no idea you exist?”

“He doesn’t, Grandpa,” Shiro says, frowning. “Well, I guess he does now. But barely.”

“Is this the not-date boy? Your protégé?”

Shiro snorts. “He’s not my protégé.”

“He’s not a lot of things, apparently.”

“ _Grandpa_.”

There’s another moment of silence. He feels the couch dip and recognizes when Grandpa Jin scoots closer to him. He smells like the organic lemongrass detergent Aunt Mei buys, and the dark roast coffee he’s been drinking ever since Shiro was small. It’s a comforting scent. If someone would ask him what home smells like, Shiro’s sure he’d say Grandpa Jin.

“Your grandmother had no idea I existed.”

“That’s different,” Shiro murmurs. “Weren’t you guys engaged eight days after meeting?”

“It’s not that different,” Grandpa Jin insists, flicking his forehead. “I’m talking about before that. She worked in a diner, and I’d always go by, hoping I’d see her. When I did, she never looked twice at me. But  _I_  saw her, and that was all I needed.”

Shiro swallows hard, ignoring the frustration that begins to build in his chest.

“It’d never work, even if he  _did_  care.” It hurts, admitting it, but doesn’t the truth usually leave behind some kind of everlasting  _burn_? Like getting stung by a wasp in the summer, when you were just out there, minding your own business. It’s unexpected, even though you’ve heard over and over again that it’s painful as shit.

Hell, maybe that’s what love’s like too. Not that Shiro would know.

“Why’s that?”

“We’re different,” Shiro says.

“Doesn’t mean incompatible.”

“It did,” Shiro starts, forcing himself to continue before he loses his nerve. “With Mom and Dad.”

Grandpa Jin stiffens beside him. Shiro forces his eyes open, glancing up at him. He can count on one hand all the times his grandfather has looked serious about anything. The one he remembers the most had been when he and Aunt Mei had come to pick Shiro and Ryou up from their parent’s house. It’d been the last night they’d ever spent there, but they hadn’t known it at the time. Aunt Mei did all the talking, her face red, her eyes filled with tears. Grandpa Jin had stood behind her, head dipped low, frowning. He hadn’t said a word, not when they got in the car, not when they arrived in Garrison.

He just stared, and stared, and  _stared_.

“You’re not going to be like them,” Jin says, his voice rough. “That’s why you’re here.”

Shiro doesn’t know what to say, so he just doesn’t say  _anything_. The silence that falls over them is oppressive, and he finds himself wishing he hadn’t opened his mouth at all.

“You’re being silly,” he continues on, with the most put-on, chipper voice Shiro’s ever heard. “A good looking chap like you probably has potential suitors lined up. There are plenty of seas for the fish to swim in.”

Shiro furrows his eyebrows.

“You mean plenty of fish in the sea?”

“That’s what they want you to think,” Jin says, flicking him again. “Don’t fall prey to their tactics, Takashi.”

“Right. Okay,” Shiro says, biting back a laugh. “Hey, Grandpa?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Sure,” Grandpa Jin says, standing with an exaggerated groan. “Jesus. I’m too old to be pouring my heart out like this. Let’s never do this again.”

Shiro does laugh then, barely dodging the hand Jin throws out to ruffle his hair with.

 

 

 

 

 

He’s walking with Pidge when  _it_  happens.

It being Keith Kogane disembarking from his bike, slinging his bag over his shoulder (as all cool rich kids do), and giving Shiro a short nod of acknowledgement.

Pidge chokes on her coffee, the overpriced cinnamon mocha she’ll buy even when her bank account dips into the single-digits. She grips Shiro’s arm hard enough that he’s sure there will be skinny little finger-shaped bruises left behind.

“What the hell was that?”

“What was what?” Shiro asks, even as his cheeks start to feel suspiciously warm.

“ _That_!” Pidge hisses, jerking her cup towards the entrance of Garrison Prep that Keith is currently walking towards. Coffee splashes over the sides, dribbling down her fingers, and Shiro just  _knows_  she’s going to bitch about it later. “Why is  _Keith Kogane_  saying hi to you?”

“He wasn’t saying hi. He was just…nodding.”

“Yeah. At  _you_.” She narrows her eyes, releasing him just to jab her finger into the middle of his chest with enough force to make his eyes water. “Takashi Shirogane!”

“Oh, c’mon, don’t full name me,” Shiro groans. “It’s nothing, okay? We’re going to be late.”

“You know what I noticed about you?” Pidge begins sweetly. “Every time your mouth moves, you’re  _lying_.”

“Even when I’m eating?”

“I swear to God, Shirogane.”

“Alright, alright, don’t hurt me,” Shiro says. Pidge may only come up to his chest on a good day, but that doesn’t mean she can’t hit him where it counts.

“Explain. Now.”

Had it been any other day, maybe Shiro would’ve been given a choice. Some neat excuse, like,  _oh gee, I’d love to, but calculus is just calling my name!_

Of course, because this is Shiro’s sad, sad, life, he doesn’t get a choice at all. It’s Tuesday, and every Tuesday he and Pidge have a free period from 8:00 to 9:00. So, unless he wants to hide in the boys’ bathroom for an hour, Shiro has to talk.

Pidge herds him to the back corner of the cafeteria by the window. It’s considered a prime spot, since if you time it  _just right_ , you can often see the prep kids practicing on the field. Lacrosse, tennis, golf. You name it, they’re playing it. In overpriced polos, and worth more than anything you’ll ever buy sweats.

It’s too early for anyone to be out there now, other than the maintenance guy that mows the lawn every few weeks. Pidge shoves him into a seat and sits across from him at the round table, her hands folded like she’s conducting a thorough investigation and Shiro’s the criminal she’s finally captured.

Shiro explains the party, and the lake, and most importantly,  _Keith_. Pidge blinks at him. Once, twice, three times, before she finally speaks.

“You’re his tutor.”

“Yes.”

“You.”

“That’s what I said, yeah.”

“You’re fucked,” Pidge says, with an air of finality. “But hey, at least you’re talking to him now instead of leering at him across the parking lot.”

“I don’t leer at him! I don’t think I’ve ever leered at anyone in my life.”

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

She goes quiet for a minute. That usually spells out trouble for Shiro, who already finds himself preparing himself for the blow. Sometimes it’s physicial, since apparently Matt isn’t good enough of a target for her. Oh  _no_ , Pidge likes it when her victims exude fear from every single pore on their body.

“Shiro.”

“Yeah?”

“I think it’s time,” she starts gravely, “that we talk about the birds and the bees.”

Shiro’s jaw drops before he presses it shut and slams his head onto the table.

“I hate you,” he mutters into the fake wood beneath his face.

Pidge cackles, loudly and unapologetically, even when people start glaring at her and Shiro begs her to stop.


	3. Not Bad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for so many updates, i'm just seriously invested in this fic now lol. thanks for all the love and support!

“So. You and Keith, huh?”

“It’s not like that,” Shiro says, fully aware of how unconvincing that is with the way his voice wavers. Matt arches an eyebrow and chomps down on the fry he snags from Shiro’s plate.

“Did you guys hook up?”

“What? No!” Shiro says, kicking Matt’s ankle. Matt coughs up bits of chewed-up potato that Hunk instantly cleans up with a napkin. Bless him, honestly. “I’m his  _tutor_.”

“Tutor,” Matt repeats. “ _You_.”

“That’s what I said,” Pidge interjects, to which Shiro gives her a dark glare. “Look, I get that he’s been your crush since, like, the dawn of time. But he’s bad news.”

“He’s not that bad,” Shiro protests mildly. He ignores how Matt and Pidge look at him like he’s a moron. Hell, even Hunk is looking at him like that. And Hunk  _never_  does that.

“He’s an asshole, a pretentious  _rich_  asshole, and I’ll bet my left kidney he’ll go back to ignoring you whenever this whole tutoring thing ends,” Pidge says, listing each item off on her fingers. Shiro bets she has a PowerPoint prepared for this.  _Reasons why Shiro should not be friends with Keith. By Pidge, for Shiro’s best interest._ “I’m just saying you can do better.”

“He’s not bad,” Shiro says again, softer, and he flinches when Hunk pats his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, I believe you. Mostly,” he says, leaning towards Shiro.

He’s whispering, but the thing is Hunk doesn’t really know how to. His whispering is just quiet talking. That isn’t that quiet. So, talking. Either way, he’s trying his best. Shiro flashes him a smile, hoping it comes off as genuine as he’s trying to make it.

“Hey, don’t encourage him,” Pidge says, flicking a pickle at Hunk. It lands squarely on his cheek. “Look, Shiro. It’s cute and all that you’re hanging out with Keith now, but there’s nowhere for this to go but down. Don’t you want to be with someone who, I don’t know, actually acknowledges your existence?”

Shiro clenches his jaw. He doesn’t know how to respond to that. Kind of because he’s a little hurt, but mostly because Pidge is, as always, frustratingly  _right_. He knows none of this means anything to Keith, that he’s just some generous stranger who decided to help tutor him. But Keith’s talking to him now. They’re, maybe, kind of acquaintances? It’s closer than Shiro’s ever gotten to any of his crushes. Which isn’t saying much, since this is the second one he’s ever had, but that’s not the point.

It’s stupid, but a tiny part of him is hoping that he and Keith will become friends after this. They’re practically existing on two different planets. Like, if Shiro’s Earth, then Keith’s Jupiter. Or, better yet, Neptune. So, yeah. Miles upon miles apart. He’s not expecting Keith to suddenly kiss him in the rain like a rom-com, but maybe trading jokes isn’t too much to ask for.

Judging by Pidge’s pointed look, it is.

“Alright, I think that’s enough,” Matt says, actually sounding a little apologetic. “You guys up for dessert? I’ll pay.”

“You’ve never paid for a damn thing in your life,” Pidge says, just as Hunk instantly swipes the dessert menu from the holder beside him.

“You want anything, Shiro?” Hunk asks, already fixated with choosing between apple and cherry pie.

“I’ve gotta pee,” he says instead of answering, sliding out of the booth and walking aimlessly towards the bathroom. He hears Pidge and Matt begin to bicker behind him, but he ignores them.

In the bathroom, he hunches over the sink and tries to clear his mind. He shouldn’t care this much. He doesn’t have a chance with Keith. Never has. He knew that coming into this tutor-student nonsense, so nothing should change now.

So why the hell is he so bothered?

“Snap out of it,” he tells his reflection. He tries to school the kicked-puppy expression he’s currently sporting into something neutral, but it doesn’t budge.

He spends a few more minutes just standing there, splashing water on his cheeks. He pats them dry and shuffles out of the bathroom. Everyone stops talking when he arrives back at the table.

“You okay?” Matt asks.

“Fine,” Shiro mutters.

Matt looks like he’s going to say something, but he’s interrupted by Hunk’s mother returning to their booth. She’s been waitressing at Sal’s ever since Hunk was a child. She always makes sure they’re well-fed and happy, so it’s no surprise that Sal’s has become somewhat of their usual hangout spot.

“Dessert?” Mrs. Garrett asks, already looking at her son expectantly.

“Apple pie,” Hunk says with finality. “Wait, no. Cherry.”

“You don’t even like cherries,” Mrs. Garrett says with a sigh, a fond smile on her face. Hunk narrows his eyes.

“I  _could_ ,” he says, sounding a touch offended, and Shiro can’t stop himself from grinning. “But fine, apple.”

Pidge and Matt order apple as well, and Shiro shakes his head at the brow Mrs. Garrett arches at him.

“Alrighty then, I’ll get those started,” she says. “Shiro, you want to come back and help?”

“Uh, sure,” he says, rising from his seat.

“Thanks.” Mrs. Garrett flashes him a smile. “Hunk, honey, you have a pickle on your face.”

She leaves it at that, and Shiro turns just in time to see Hunk take the pickle off his face and eat it. Pidge mimes gagging while Matt reaches across the table to give him a high-five.

“I saw you leaving the bathroom,” Mrs. Garrett says, humming quietly as she opens the dessert display to get the apple pie. Shiro settles behind the counter and shrugs. “You looked upset.”

“It’s nothing, Mrs. Garrett.”

“Who’s Keith?”

Shiro flushes and Mrs. Garrett tuts.

“See? Nothing. I don’t believe it.”

“He’s just some kid I’m tutoring,” Shiro says, but even he can tell how far from the truth that is. But it’s not like he really wants to tell Hunk’s  _mother_  all about his nonexistent love-life and inability to  _not_  pine after a pretty face like his life depends on it.

“Shiro,” Mrs. Garrett says then, sliding a plate with pie across the counter. “What’s holding you back?”

_What’s holding you back?_

The question takes him off guard. He stares at her blankly for a few moments, mouth dropped, and Mrs. Garrett simply goes back to cutting up another slice of pie. It’s quiet in the diner. Late, too, considering how the skies have finally darkened and the radio has been turned down to nothing more than a soft lullaby.

But suddenly it feels so, so small. Shiro feels himself tense up and tries to come up with a response. Mrs. Garrett’s known him since he was a kid. No point lying to her now.

“I’m scared.”

It sucks, to say it out loud like that. Shiro likes to pretend nothing fazes him anymore, not shitty parents or conspiracy theorist grandfathers or rich, out of his league crushes. But if he’s being honest with himself (which is difficult to accomplish most days), he’s downright terrified. Terrified that it’ll always be like this, like he’ll always have someone close enough to him to see, talk to, maybe even be friends with, but never to  _have_.

And hell, maybe having a family fall apart and come back together in a new shape at five years old fucked with him. Maybe sometimes he finds himself wondering what the hell he did to deserve all the shit he’s been dealt. And fuck, maybe for once, just one, goddamn time, he wants to feel like he’s won.

“It’s okay to be scared,” Mrs. Garrett finally speaks up. “But don’t let your fear control you.”

She puts the pie back into the display. Shiro grabs two plates while she takes the third, and they head back to the table. Hunk cheers when he sees them, and Shiro’s barely seated when the plates are swiped from him.

They linger around the diner long after dessert is finished and the plates have been cleared. Mrs. Garrett finally shoos them away, and they all pile into Michelle to head back to the Holt’s house.

It’s part of their routine. On the days where they’re not bogged down with homework and extracurriculars and part-time jobs, they have dinner at Sal’s. Afterwards, it’s group bonding time in the Holt’s basement. After Pidge and Matt’s parents got it cleaned up, they’d turned it into a hangout of sorts. Bean bags, flat screen tv, air mattresses. The works.

Today, Shiro settles on one of the air mattresses, the one pushed up against the wall with the soft blanket and even softer pillow. Hunk and Pidge argue over what movie to watch as Matt flops down beside him.

“Hey, seriously,” Matt begins, voice low. “You cool?”

He’s talking about the diner, about Pidge’s not-so-gentle reminder. It stings, even now, but Shiro can’t keep fixating on it. Shouldn’t even care that much about it, now that he thinks about it.

“It’s fine,” Shiro says, already getting tired of saying it. “It’s not like she was wrong.”

“Don’t do that,” Matt says with a frown. “You’ve been crushing on Keith since freshman year. You remember the first time you saw him?”

Shiro winces. He wishes he didn’t. He’d already been nervous about starting high school. Aunt Mei had taken the day off so she could drop him off, and she even managed to get Grandpa Jin to tag along. Jin had complained about it the entire way, but Shiro had been too busy trying not to puke to be offended.

He’d just stepped out of the car, backpack in his hands, when he saw Keith. He was being dropped off in a black Range Rover. Even then, at fourteen, when most kids had acne and braces and general  _awkwardness_ , Keith had been cool. Like unfairly cool. Ralph Lauren model kind of cool.

And Shiro had stared, and stared, until Grandpa Jin pinched his side and told him to stop ogling the cute boy. Keith had heard it, and even smirked tauntingly at Shiro. Kind of like a  _you can look but you can’t touch_  sort of deal.

Shiro doubts Keith remembers it, since he hasn’t mentioned it, but Shiro can’t really get away from it. The mortification still manages to eat him alive three years later.

“It’s just a crush,” Shiro says, shrugging off the concerned hand Matt places on his shoulder. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Pidge and Hunk have finally settled on a movie by then, so Matt shuffles to the other end of the mattress and lays back. Shiro’s eyes stayed glued to the screen, but he has no idea what he’s looking at. When the credits begin to roll, he stands up.

“I should probably go,” he says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

Matt and Hunk are arm-wrestling for some reason, so Pidge walks him up. She hesitates when they reach the front door. Shiro waits for her to say something, but she just shakes her head.

“Get home safe,” she says, smiling.

Shiro smiles back and steps out onto the porch. He almost falls asleep on the bike ride home, and has to pinch himself a few times to make sure he doesn’t.

 

 

 

 

 

_Same time as last. Use the fucking buzzer this time. Code’s 102302. -Keith_

Shiro flushes and tucks his phone away. Ryou gives him a strange look from the passenger seat. They’ve just gotten back from grocery shopping, and Shiro’s honestly proud of himself for not giving in and buying whatever junk Ryou dropped into the cart.

“Don’t text and drive,” he says, in a perfect imitation of Aunt Mei. Shiro snorts.

“We’re parked.”

“You’re in the car,” Ryou says. He grins but stops suddenly. “It’s, uh, September.”

“I know.”

“ _Eighth_.”

The words strike him right in the gut. Shiro clenches the wheel tight enough that his knuckles begin to ache. He hears Ryou shift in his seat and releases the wheel, letting his hands fall limp into his lap. September eighth. Their mother’s birthday.

“You gonna call her?” Ryou asks. Shiro shakes his head so quickly that he swears he can feel the blood sloshing around in his skull.

“You?”

“Should I?”

“Do you want to?” Shiro asks, turning to face him. Ryou scowls.

“No. Not really.”

“Then don’t.”

“She called. Today. Aunt Mei said not to tell you.”

“Why?”

“Because she knows how you get,” Ryou says, rolling his eyes. He begins to fidget before he continues. “And because, uh, Emi had a baby.”

Baby. Emi. The same woman who swore up and down that she never wanted to be a mother. That the twins were a mistake, that Shiro and Ryou should’ve never been born. Their mother, who was left by their father, who had them up until they were five, before she spiraled into drugs and alcohol and God knows what else.

Shiro assumed at a young age that this was what his life was meant to be. His mother would never love him, and he had to step up and take care of his brother. He never expected Aunt Mei and Grandpa Jin to come into the picture. He never expected to be loved, to have a family.

But even though they tried, Grandpa Jin and Aunt Mei just couldn’t replace a father, a mother. They loved him, Shiro knew that, but he still grew up feeling like he was missing out. It didn’t help that his friends had happy, healthy families, that were held together by the sheer love and respect that held for one another.

But now, hearing that Emi’s moved on, with a house and a husband and a  _baby_ , makes him feel nauseous. He leans back against his seat, body feeling weak, and he hears the exact moment Ryou punches the dashboard.

“We weren’t good enough for her,” Ryou snarls. “She never fucking wanted kids. What changed?”

“Nothing changed,” Shiro says flatly. “She just moved on. Grew up.”

“Grew up,” Ryou echoes. “Fuck, as if she  _knows_  what that means.”

“Don’t get so worked up over it, Ryou.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Protecting her,” Ryou says. “You do this shit every goddamn time, Takashi. She fucks up, somebody says something about it, and you act like she fucking  _deserves_  your time.”

“I don’t,” Shiro says, but it sounds like bullshit even to himself. “She deserves to be happy, though. I’m in no position to stop her from doing that.”

“You’re fucked,” Ryou bites out, getting out and slamming the Sentra’s door hard enough that Shiro jumps at the sound.

He gets out with a slow, measured pace. He grabs all the bags he can, handing them off to Mei when she opens the door.

“I guess he told you,” she says, voice subdued. Shiro nods.

“Is that all she wanted?” he asks, voice muffled when Aunt Mei drags him into a hug that squeezes the breath out of him. “To brag about her kid?”

“Forget her,” Mei says firmly, pulling back to rest her hands on her shoulder. “Do you hear me, Takashi?  _Forget her_.”

He tries. Really, he does. But it’s hard. He never had the experience the other kids he age did. He and Ryou had been stranded outside of their elementary school the first day of kindergarten because Emi never bothered to show up to get them. Their father had long been gone by then. He’d popped in out of their lives, during the times in their parent’s relationship where he decided he wanted to be with their mother, but he never stayed for long.

“Hey,” Aunt Mei says softly. “How about I make some hot chocolate, and we watch a movie?”

Shiro nods stiffly. “Vegan hot chocolate?”

“Careful, brat,” she says, but she’s smiling.

Shiro goes to the living room and drops down onto the couch. Ryou comes down a few minutes later to take Grandpa Jin to his doctor’s appointment, and he waves to them as they pass. He flips lazily through the channels, finally settling on an old Hallmark movie.

Aunt Mei sits gingerly beside him, handing him a mug. It’s hot, but Shiro curls his hands around it and stares down into the dark brown liquid. Steam curls towards his face, fogging his glasses, and Mei laughs softly.

They sit in comfortable silence for a while. Shiro shifts restlessly, his entire body feeling itchy, like his skin’s stretched too tight over his muscles. He sets his untouched mug down and watches as Mei raises her eyebrows at him.

“What did she want?”

He worries that he’s going to have to explain, but he doesn’t think he can get the words out. Luckily, Mei seems to understand. She sighs and sets her mug beside Shiro’s.

“She wants to see us,” she says, slowly, as if she’s trying to figure out how to word her thoughts in the best way possible. “Especially you and Ryou.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, Takashi.”

He nods to himself, leaning back so deeply into the couch that he wonders if it’ll swallow him up.

“Are you going?”

“To see her?”

“Yeah.”

“No,” Aunt Mei says, with an air of finality.

“She’s your sister.”

“In nothing more than blood,” Mei spits venomously. Shiro shrinks back from her. Her expression softens then. “Do you want to go?”

He thinks about it, for a moment. What would he even get out of the visit? The painful reminder that he’s been replaced?

“Not really.”

“She’s your mother.”

“Only by blood,” Shiro echoes faintly. Aunt Mei frowns.

“She asked about college.”

“What’d you tell her?”

“Nothing. Figured it’s not her place to know.”

“Yeah. Guess not.”

“Like I said, don’t worry about it,” Mei continues, reclaiming her mug. “You’ve got enough on your plate already. Senior year’s busy. She’s not important.”

Not important, Shiro repeats to himself. If he says it enough he’ll probably start to believe it.

 

 

 

 

 

He’s still thinking about it, his mother and her new family, when he bikes to Keith’s house later in the day. He uses the buzzer this time, wondering how the hell he missed it before. His hands shake when he inputs the code, and he’s not sure why he’s shocked when the gates buzz and open.

He walks through, hands gripping the straps of his backpack tight. His phone vibrates in his pocket and he flicks it open.

_Door’s open -Keith_

Shiro lets himself in, carefully toeing off his sneakers and setting them in the shoe rack. The walk to Keith’s room feels unbearably long for some reason, and he doesn’t say anything when he opens the door and drops onto the ground.

“Hey,” Keith says, somewhat pointedly.

“Hi,” Shiro barely manages to get out.

He barely focuses on whatever calculus problem Keith shoves at him. He can feel Keith watching him and he brushes the feeling off, pretending that the numbers on the page before him aren’t swimming laps in his vision.

“Alright,” Keith says suddenly, snapping his book closed. “Get up.”

“What?” Shiro asks, confused.

He squeaks, honest to God  _squeaks_  when Keith grabs his wrist and yanks him to his feet. Right. Boxing. Strong arms or whatever. It makes a wave of heat roll through his gut and Shiro does his best to ignore it.

Keith all but pushes him downstairs, where they put their shoes on. He freezes when he realizes he’s being led to Keith’s bike.

“Get on.”

“Do you have a helmet?” Shiro asks. Keith gives him a withering glare. “What?”

Keith crosses his arms over his chest.

“Are you always like this?” he asks brusquely.

“Like what?” Shiro asks, unable to stop his voice from rising slightly in pitch. “Worried about safety? Concerned about making it through this night?”

“Get on,” Keith hisses, “before I  _strap_  you onto it.”

Shiro almost says something completely ridiculous, like  _yes sir_ , but thankfully his brain’s offline and unable to embarrass the shit out of him per usual. Keith gets on in front of him, and when he puts the bike into gear Shiro can’t stop himself from putting his hands around Keith’s waist.

He thinks he hears Keith snort, but he doesn’t have time to think about it before they’re moving. Shiro swallows hard, fingers digging into Keith. Something rolls over him, kind of like nausea, when he realizes how much he  _likes_  it. If he buries his face into Keith’s shoulder, just to get closer, to pretend that this is more than it feels like, well, that’s no one’s business but his own.

Keith pulls over to the curb, and Shiro quickly retracts his arms. He finds himself missing the warmth as soon as it’s gone.

“C’mon,” Keith says, and there’s a mischievous grin on his face.

Shiro’s breath gets lodged in his throat. He doesn’t know why he’s so affected by it. Oh, wait. He does.

He’s got a stupidly big crush on Keith. How could he possibly forget.

Keith walks forward and opens a heavy-looking metal door. Shiro glances around the area, not recognizing it all. He expected it to be some kind of ritzy, uptown sort of spot, but it’s nothing like that. Everything looks run down, like this place is barely holding on. In short, it’s not the kind of place he ever expected Keith to spend his time in.

Keith leads him through a narrow corridor. It’s lit by a few blindingly bright neon lights, grey concrete walls and floors and just about everything. Shiro brushes his fingers against one of the walls as they pass, hand instantly going back to his side when it crumbles beneath his fingers.

Keith pushes open another door when they reach the end of the hallway. Shiro lingers uncertainly outside before Keith tuts impatiently at him. He steps hesitantly into the room, freezing yet again when Keith flicks the lights on.

“A boxing ring?” he asks, facing Keith.

“I come here when I get frustrated,” Keith says, heading towards a row of lockers along the back wall. “It helps.”

“I don’t know how to box.”

Keith grins faintly. “I’ll teach you.”

“Me?” Shiro asks, pointing at himself. “I’ve never thrown a punch in my life. I don’t even know how to make a fist!”

Keith hums, tossing a pair of black boxing gloves over his shoulder. Shiro fumbles to catch them, coughing when dust flies at his face and settles into his nostrils.

“You’re pretty built,” Keith says, looking over at him for a long moment. He smirks. “Should be able to last a few rounds. Besides, you’ve got nothing to lose other than your teeth.”

“Wait, what?”

Keith puts on his own gloves, red ones, and steps beneath the rope into the ring after kicking his shoes off. Shiro follows his lead, staring down at the hole in his sock. His big toe peeks out slightly, and he curses himself for not realizing sooner.

“First rule of fight club,” Keith begins, smile full of teeth, eyes glinting beneath the harsh lights above their head. “You do  _not_  talk about fight club.”

“I’ve never even watched that movie,” Shiro mumbles, barely managing to dodge the fist that comes flying at his face. “Hey, whoa! A little warning next time?”

“Aw,” Keith coos mockingly. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He’s bouncing lightly on his heels, looking a bit like a lion staring down at a gazelle. A Shiro-shaped gazelle. With far less grace and a much higher chance of running away in alarm.

Keith swings again, and Shiro actually manages to block his punch. He grins, but before he can celebrate Keith’s glove slams into his gut. It hurts. Like  _really_  hurts, more than that one time Pidge sat on his head when they were kids because he wouldn’t let her pick the movie they were going to watch.

“Jesus,” Shiro wheezes.

“He’s not gonna help you, Shirogane,” Keith says, darting in for another hit. Shiro stumbles over himself trying to get away. “You gonna hit me anytime soon?”

“Yes,” Shiro says sourly, even though a tiny part of him panics at the thought. Him? Hitting Keith? He’s never imagined something remotely close to that ever happening.

And yet, here they are. In a goddamn boxing ring, where Shiro’s getting his ass handed to him on a shiny silver platter.

“You’ve gotta figure out what I’m gonna do before I even do it,” Keith says, not even tauntingly. He almost looks like he’s pitying Shiro, which, honestly,  _fair_. He knows how pathetic he can look to the general population most days. “Otherwise you’re never gonna get a hit in.”

“You  _want_  me to hit you?”

“Kinda the point,” Keith says, bouncing again. He’s laughing, quietly, but it still manages to make Shiro melt. Keith’s got a nice laugh. A nice everything, really, but his laugh is definitely worth writing home about.

Shiro stops for a second, gloves blocking his face. He watches Keith, honestly he tries, but it’s  _hard_. Keith’s fast, like lightning fast, and just when Shiro gets him figured out he changes it up. It’s frustrating, but after a while Shiro thinks he’s almost got him figured out.

He gets Keith solidly in the chest. They both stop before Shiro begins to laugh, manic with glee.

“Holy shit!” he says, just as Keith sweeps his legs out from beneath him. He hits the ground hard, eyes watering with the impact as he stares up at the ceiling.

“Don’t let your guard down,” Keith says, easily straddling him.

Shiro feels his eyes go wide. There’s something very, very dangerous brewing in his jeans at the moment, and it’s not helped when Keith sits back onto his thighs, smirking victoriously.

“Yield,” Keith says, and Shiro can barely hear him over the rush of blood in his ears.

His mouth feels frozen in place, like no amount of effort is going to be able to get him to talk. Keith shifts slightly against him and just  _stops_ , and Shiro knows he feels Shiro’s erection pressing not-too-subtly into his ass.

Silence passes between them. It feels like it lasts for hours, but it’s only a few seconds. Keith reaches forward, lifting off of Shiro’s lap, and pushes his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose.

“Glasses were crooked,” he announces gruffly, and then he’s gone.

Shiro feels strangely cold. He sits up in a daze, watching as Keith tugs his gloves off and tosses them aside. He goes back to the lockers, where he gets two water bottles. He tosses one at Shiro, who watches as it rolls towards him along the mat.

“Feel better?” Keith asks, dropping down beside him.

“Yeah,” Shiro says, still beating himself up. “Thanks.”

Keith shrugs.

“You’re of no use to me if you’re distracted,” Keith says. Shiro pauses, but then Keith nudges him. “Kidding. Kinda.”

“How’d you learn how to box?”

“My mom,” Keith says. “She was a cop. Big on self-defense and everything.”

“Was?” Shiro whispers.

He sees Keith’s jaw clench and regrets ever saying anything.

“She’s dead,” Keith says. “Both my parents are. I live with my uncle.”

Shiro pauses, unsure of what to say. Keith’s opening up to him, telling him about his family.

“My mom has a new family,” he says. “She just had a baby. She was a teenager when she had my brother and I. She gave us up because it was too hard.”

“That why you’re so pissy?” Keith asks, taking a swig of his water.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“Stop fucking apologizing,” Keith says, with little to no bite. “It’s not your fault. Your mom sounds like she sucks.”

Shiro laughs, startled.

“She kinda does,” he admits, and feels like he’s won something when Keith smiles at him. “Hey. Thanks.”

“You said that already.”

“I know. But seriously,” Shiro says, stopping himself before he can say something ridiculous. His tongue feels three sizes too big for his mouth, and he busies himself with taking large gulps of water.

“Yeah, whatever,” Keith mutters, but it still manages to make Shiro feel warm inside.

 

 

 

 

 

When he gets home that night, he can’t stop smiling. Grandpa Jin is drinking coffee in the dining room, eyes narrowed.

“Good tutoring session?” he asks.

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” Shiro says. Jin hums into his drink.

“You’re fooling no one, boy,” he says, and Shiro scoffs.

“It’s not like that, Grandpa!” he calls over his shoulder as he bounds up the stairs.

He strips down to his boxers and lays flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He’s still thinking about Keith, and he flushes when he remembers the feel of him pressed onto his lap. Then he’s got Keith’s smile in his head, and his dick perking up with interest, and he honest to God tries to be ashamed by how quickly his hand slides beneath his boxers.

He strokes himself slowly, biting his lip at the friction. Too dry, not slick enough, but it’s  _good_. He keeps himself focus on Keith’s frustratingly pretty face and feels his back arch up from the bed. He keeps going at himself until he’s panting for it, aching from head to toe, trying to imagine Keith on his lap again, pressed against him.

He plays Keith’s quiet, raspy chuckle in his head and that’s  _it_. His orgasm crashes through him like a freight train and leaves him gasping in the aftermath. He groans, rubbing his cum off lazily on the sheets before burying himself beneath his blankets.

He’s not sure why he’s thinking of Pidge now, but it’s enough to effectively murder the whole afterglow thing he’s got going on.

_I’m just saying you can do better._

He repeats that to himself, over and over. Maybe for a second Pidge had been right, that Keith is so drastically out of his league, but regardless, Keith’s never acted like an asshole. He’s an asshole in general, sure, but Shiro doesn’t think that’s all he is.

“He’s not bad,” he says to himself.

If he was, he wouldn’t have given a crap about Shiro’s predicament. They would’ve gone on with tutoring, and Shiro would’ve headed home to sulk.

He’s reaching for his phone, struggling to think of what to say. It takes him a while to type in the message, both because he’s nervous and because his Nokia is not exactly made for expressing his thoughts in a quick, efficient manner.

**_Thanks for doing what you did today. You didn’t have to_ ** **.**

Keith answers almost instantly.

_Jesus fucking Christ, stop saying that. It’s not a big deal_

A pause. And then:

_I know. I wanted to._

I wanted to. Keith wanted to?

Shiro repeats that to himself over and over, his eyes practically glued to the tiny screen. Maybe he read that wrong. Maybe Keith made a type. Maybe it’s just some kind of cruel joke? A  _ha, gotcha_  kind of deal?

His phone buzzes again, and Shiro licks his dry lips when he reads the words.

_You’re welcome, by the way_

“Oh no,” Shiro groans, recognizing this as the exact moment his crush on Keith has reached the point of no return.


	4. The Not-Date Protege Meets the Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probably the last chapter i'll be able to get out for a while because college starts up again on monday and i'm already stress-sobbing :)))))

“What do you mean you don’t know what happened to it?”

Shiro’s mad, like volcano-about-to-erupt _mad_. It doesn’t help that Ryou’s just standing in front of him, arms crossed over his chest and lips pulled into a frown as if _he’s_ the one who has a right to be upset.

“It’s not my fault your bike’s a piece of shit!”

“How did you manage to snap a chain? You had it for less than an hour! It was fine before you left!”

“Whoa, hey, what’s going on out here?” Aunt Mei sticks her head out of the door.

Shiro gestures emphatically at his bike, now lying pathetically on its side. Ryou looms over it like a cartoon villain who’s finally slayed his enemy. It makes Shiro want to punch him. You know, if he knew how to make a proper fist without breaking his thumb or something equally embarrassing.

“Takashi’s being a little bitch,” Ryou sneers. “Like _usual_.”

“That’s a quarter for the swear jar,” Shiro says, ignoring how Ryou rolls his eyes. “He snapped the chain on my bike.”

“It’s okay, it happens,” Mei says soothingly, stepping across the porch. “I’ll try and drop you off at school before work. Worst comes to worst, you guys can take the bus, right?”

“I’m not worried about school,” Shiro mutters. “I have tutoring today.”

“Tutoring,” Ryou echoes, rolling his eyes yet again. Shiro childishly hopes they get stuck like that. “Excuse me, hotshot. Didn’t realize you had a _nerd_ date.”

“Hey, enough,” Mei snaps. She points a finger at Ryou. “Inside.”

“Aunt Mei—”

“ _Now_ , Ryou!”

Ryou groans and tosses his hands up into the air. He storms past Shiro, stomping up the stairs and shoving past Mei into the house. Shiro sighs and stares dejectedly at his bike again. He could just cancel, he guesses. Keith would understand, right?

It’s just…he _really_ doesn’t want to. Tutoring’s kind of a fun thing for him now. At first he’d been scared that he’d pee himself or otherwise embarrass himself to the point where he'd have to become a hermit for the rest of his life. But it’s been a few weeks now, and things are kind of comfortable between him and Keith. It’s like a switch flipped after the whole boxing ring incident, and Keith acts like Shiro’s _cool_. Like, laughs at his stupid jokes, tells jokes of his own kind of cool.

It’s nice. Actually, more than nice, but Shiro’s vocabulary tends to be limited when it comes to Keith. Like, boy like boy. Boy nice. Shiro like Keith. _That_ kind of limited.

He doesn’t even realize Aunt Mei’s talking to him until she shouts his name. He jumps, heart hammering in his chest.

“I know you’re upset,” she’s saying. “We’ll try and fix it tomorrow, okay? I can drive you to your tutoring session today if you want. Where is it?”

Oh, no. No. No, no, no. Aunt Mei cannot know about Keith. Not only will she be able to pick up almost instantly that he has a colossal crush on him, but she’ll probably join Grandpa Jin on all the stupid date jokes. The last thing Shiro needs is the two of them creating some kind of “Ruin Takashi Shirogane’s Life” alliance. Because, wow, _yikes_.

“Uh, no that’s okay,” Shiro says hurriedly. “I’ll just walk.”

“Are you sure?” Mei arches a brow. “It’s supposed to rain tonight.”

“I have a hoodie,” Shiro says, flipping the hood up over his head to prove his point. “It’s fine, it’s not too far.”

By not that far, it’s only maybe a few miles. A walk in the park.

A _tiring_ walk in the park. But he’s used to running suicides at soccer with Iverson breathing down his neck. It doesn’t matter that he consistently comes in last, or that he turns into a disgusting mouth-breather every time he does.

“Be careful,” Mei says, still looking like she’d rather take Shiro herself. “Try to be home before dark, okay?”

“No problem,” Shiro says, waving to her and beginning to walk away.

“Love you!”

“Love you too!” he calls over his shoulder.

He puts his hands into his pockets and wishes that he brought his iPod. His Nokia doesn’t exactly support the newest apps. Hell, his iPod doesn’t really either. But at least he has music. Something to make the time go faster.

He busies himself by counting his steps. When he gets tired of that, he begins counting the cigarette butts lining the gutters. He gets to fifty-four before he gets bored and finds something else to count. Tar spots, cars, other people walking. It’s all very exciting. No sarcasm at _all_ there.

It begins raining halfway through his trip. Note to self: hoodies really _are not_ waterproof. They’re Bounty paper towel level absorbent. So, pretty damn absorbent. It’s like wearing a wet sponge after a while, and Shiro clenches his teeth to stop them from chattering. Thunder crackles overhead and Shiro prays that today isn’t the day he gets struck by lightning. A cool way to go, just not in the middle of the night with a streetlamp as his only form of company.

He’s not sure how he manages to get to Hillside without passing out, but he certainly feels like it when he has to practically drag his feet to Keith’s gate. He inputs the code that he’s, embarrassingly enough, already memorized and waits for the buzz of the gates before he steps through.

Keith’s door is already open, so Shiro shoves his way inside and collapses onto the ground. He spreads himself out on the tile, thanking every god out there that they’re warmed. Bless rich people and their fancy houses.

“You’re late.”

Shiro snaps his eyes open, not even remembering closing them. Keith’s standing over him, arms crossed across his chest, eyebrows raised. He’s wearing a sweater today, one that’s loose enough that it exposes most of one shoulder.

Shiro’s mouth goes dry. He’s sure at least ninety percent of that is due to the absolutely _grueling_ walk he took part in.

“Sorry,” he croaks out. “Had to walk. Bike’s out of commission.”

“You walked here?” Keith asks, sounding somewhat impressed. It’s gone, though, when he rolls his eyes. “In a thunderstorm?”

“Tutoring,” Shiro says simply.

“Idiot,” Keith snaps back. He grabs Shiro’s wrist and pulls him up. “C’mon. You’re gonna get sick.”

“I probably deserve it,” Shiro admits. 

“Probably. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna let it happen.”

Shiro gets this warm feeling in the pit of stomach then. It makes him a little giddy. Keith leads him upstairs to his room, where he’s pushed into a plush desk chair and told to wait. Keith leaves the room and comes back a few minutes later with a towel and a pile of clothes.

“These should fit,” he says, tossing the clothes to Shiro. “Here.”

Shiro takes the towel from him. It’s insanely soft. What is it, made out of clouds? And why doesn’t he have any? He’d willing trade in Aunt Mei’s ridiculous embroidered Macy’s towels for this little square of heaven.

He dries his hair roughly, peeking up at Keith through his bangs. Keith’s sitting on his bed, legs crossed beneath him, papers spread open before him. He’s chewing on the end of his pen, face creased with concentration.

It shouldn’t make Shiro as breathless as it does. He feels himself stop rubbing his head, unable to do anything but stare. That warm feeling is back again, only a thousand times worse. Keith glances at him from the corner of his eye and Shiro ducks his head down.

He grabs the pile of clothes and takes them into the bathroom with them, hoping Keith doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t, just looks at him for a moment before returning to his work. Shiro changes quickly, grateful to rid himself of his damp clothes, and bundles them up into the towel.

“I can throw those into the dryer for you,” Keith offers.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Shiro says, handing over his bundle. "Thanks.”

Keith hums noncommittally and walks off with them. Shiro drags his book bag to himself and flops down onto the ground, shaking his head to get rid of any lingering moisture clinging to his hair. Which, of course, is the exact moment Keith decides to reappear. Shiro stops, bangs hanging down into his eye, cheeks slowly growing warm.

But Keith just snickers and reclaims his spot on the bed. Shiro listens to him shift around, hands gripping the edges of his physics book hard. He starts when he feels warm breath hitting the side of his neck and turns to see Keith laying on his stomach, head propped up with one hand as the other flips through his book.

“English?” Shiro asks, the word coming out strangled and hoarse. The proximity is killing him, but now he knows what Keith smells like. Citrus? Sandalwood? Shiro’s not really an expert on scents, but he knows that Keith smells good.

Of _course_ he does.

“I want to burn this book,” Keith mutters.

“It can’t be that bad.”

“It’s _A Tale of Two Cities_.”

“Oh, never mind.”

Keith chuckles and flips another page. When he finishes reading, Shiro helps him plow through a few calculus and physics problems. He winces when he checks his watch. It’s almost 9:30.

“I should probably go,” Shiro says reluctantly.

Keith looks up from the problem he’s just finished, pencil twirling idly in the air.

“I’ll take you,” Keith says. “Your clothes should be dry.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Shiro rushes to say. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’re of no use to me if you’re sick, Shirogane,” Keith says, with a teasing lilt to his voice. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to.”

Shiro nods dumbly and follows Keith down to the laundry room. Keith leaves him alone to get dressed, which Shiro does quickly before depositing his borrowed clothes into the hamper behind him. He follows the rumble of Keith’s motorcycle to find him outside, leaning against it as he waits.

He’s surprised when Keith opens the seat up and hands him a helmet. Shiro holds it in his hands, blinking down at it.

“It’s a helmet,” Keith says slowly, like Shiro’s a child. “You put it on your head so it doesn’t crack open like a fucking watermelon.”

“Shut up,” Shiro says, face burning, and Keith smirks as he straddles the bike.

Shiro clips the helmet on underneath his chin and doesn’t hesitate to rest his hands on Keith’s waist. He’s still a soft, comforting warmth beneath his palms, and Shiro can’t take his eyes off the sight.

Shiro tells Keith where to turn, and eventually they’re rolling up in front of his house. He swallows hard, hurrying to get off, and nearly trips over himself doing so.

“Thanks for the ride,” Shiro says, having to work incredibly hard to get the words out.

Keith nods and leans against the handlebars, helmet dangling by its strap over his hand. Shiro waves and begins to walk towards the house. He makes it all the way to the porch before he says:

“Hey, do you wanna, uh, come in for dinner?”

Keith sits up straight. “You’re eating dinner at ten at night?”

“We eat late on weekends,” Shiro says, stomach coiling tightly. Why the hell did he even say that? What’s wrong with him?! “I mean, if you want to. No worries. It’s late, you’ve probably got stuff to do.”

“No,” Keith says, getting off his bike. “Not really.”

He joins Shiro on the porch, hands tucked into his pockets. He looks at Shiro expectantly.

“We gonna eat out on the porch?” he asks.

“What? No, no!” Shiro fumbles in his book bag for his keys.

He opens the door slowly, poking his head in first. Living room’s clear. He motions over his shoulder for Keith to follow him inside.

Keith takes his shoes off at the door and pauses, eyes sweeping over the narrow hallway. Shiro shifts awkwardly in front of him, dropping his bag down onto the floor.

“Well,” he says slowly. “This is it.”

Keith’s eyes land on the wall beside him, the one Aunt Mei’s filled with pictures. There’s one of Shiro and Ryou on the first day of eighth grade. Ryou’s grinning, and Shiro’s ducking away from him, with his acne-riddled face and braces-filled mouth. There’s another picture of their sixteenth birthday, with Pidge, Hunk, and Matt all trying to throw Shiro into the community pool while Ryou laughs his head off to the side. There are a few more school pictures, plus a couple shots of Grandpa Jin mid-rant about one thing or another.

“These are nice,” Keith says, voice soft. There’s an expression on his face that almost looks like longing, and it feels like a punch to the gut when Shiro sees it.

“It’s not much,” Shiro says, rubbing the back of his neck.

He can’t help but to worry what Keith thinks. He lives in Hillside, after all. Shiro lives on the other side of Garrison, in Cyprus. Also known as where the less fortunate live. The house is tiny, with barely enough room for the four of them.

From his spot in the hallway, Shiro can spot a pile of Grandpa Jin’s clothes occupying an arm chair. He waits for Keith to make some expression that looks like disgust, but he just walks by like he doesn’t care.

“It’s nice,” Keith says again, looking over his shoulder at Shiro with a faint smile.

“Oh!” Aunt Mei rounds the corner then, placing a pot in the middle of the dining room table. “Takashi, you didn’t tell me you were bringing a friend over.”

“I’m Keith,” Keith says. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” Aunt Mei repeats, laughing. “Just Mei’s fine.”

Keith nods, glancing back at Shiro. Shiro clears his throat, forcing his brain to work again.

“Uh, Keith’s the kid I’m tutoring.”

“Oh!” Mei says again.

“You’re the one!” Grandpa Jin says behind her, and Shiro represses a groan when he shuffles into view. “The not-date, the protégé.”

“Grandpa,” Shiro hisses under his breath. Keith looks like he’s about to laugh, even with the quizzical expression on his face, and Shiro honestly just wants to die.

“I’m Jin. It’s nice to meet the boy my grandson sleep talks about.”

“I do not sleep talk,” Shiro grumbles.

“That’s what they want you to think!”

“Who are _they_?!” Shiro explodes, exasperated, at the same moment Keith snorts out a laugh.

Everyone in the room freezes. Mei strips off her oven mitts, her polite smile widening into something more genuine. She likes Keith, Shiro realizes, and has to actually grab his own arm to stop himself from fist-pumping the air.

“Well, Keith,” she says, gently steering Grandpa Jin into his seat. “Are you joining us for dinner?”

“If that’s alright with you,” Keith says. He looks at Shiro like he’s waiting for his approval, so Shiro instantly drops himself into the nearest seat. Keith follows his lead after a moment.

“Why are you even asking?” Jin pipes up. “You’re already in my house. Might as well eat while you’re here.”

“Dad,” Mei groans. “Just ignore him, Keith.”

“Like you ignore that ugly as sin clock?” Jin asks, rounding on her. “I told you to get rid of that thing, Mei!”

“What do you have against the clock?” Aunt Mei asks, crossing her arms.

Shiro looks over at the aforementioned clock. He doesn’t know how she managed to find a rooster clock, but she had. It doesn’t go with anything in the house, but then again nothing they own seems to. They honestly just shove everything together and hope that they click in some way.

Ryou makes an appearance then, and he stops right at the head of the table. Keith meets his gaze and Shiro watches as contained surprise comes over his face. He glances quickly between Keith and Ryou, his eyebrows furrowing.

“What’s he doing here?” Ryou mutters out of the corner of his mouth, eyes still glued to Keith.

“Hm? Oh, this is Keith. He’s the one Takashi’s tutoring,” Mei explains, smiling at Keith.

“Pretty, ain’t he?” Grandpa Jin says. “Close your mouth before you catch flies, boy.”

Ryou makes this tiny squeak in the back of his throat and sits down, lips firmly pressed together. He doesn’t look up, not even when Aunt Mei begins to serve everyone food. It’s beef teriyaki today, with rice and steamed vegetables.

Shiro watches Ryou and Keith throughout dinner, chewing slowly at his food. He doesn’t mean to narrow his eyes, really, and doesn’t notice that he is until Ryou glares at him.

“What?” he hisses, when Aunt Mei and Grandpa Jin are arguing about… _something_.

“How do you know each other?” Shiro asks before he can stop himself.

He almost wants to take the words back. _Almost_ , because he’s actually kind of dying to know. And maybe he’s a little bit jealous. He’s never been jealous of Ryou before, but hey, there’s a first time for everything.

“We play chess together,” Keith says from beside him, taking a slow sip of his water, watching Shiro as he does.

Shiro almost chokes on a carrot. Ryou, participating in something that requires more than two brain cells? Impossible.

“Oh yeah?” Shiro challenges. “Then where do the rookies go?”

“On the board,” Ryou says, with a smug grin and all.

“You’re an idiot,” Shiro says, leaning back, and he tries not to smile when Keith laughs.

“Aunt Mei,” Ryou says, pointing at Shiro. “Takashi’s being an asshole again.”

“What?” Shiro’s eyes go wide. “Hey, that’s fifty cents for the swear jar buddy!”

“How?”

“You _know_ what you said to me earlier,” Shiro says, viciously stabbing a piece of beef. “You haven’t paid for that yet.”

“How would you know?”

“Because you’re cheap. And dishonest.”

“At least I’m not dumb and boring.”

“Hey, he’s not that boring,” Keith pipes up, casually, as if he has _no idea_ what a throwaway comment like that will do to Shiro’s weak as hell heart.

“I’m so sorry,” Aunt Mei says then, seemingly finally able to get away from Grandpa Jin’s life-sucking argument. “They’re not usually this obnoxious.”

She gives Shiro and Ryou a pointed glare, one that has him shrinking down into his seat while Ryou shoves a forkful of rice into his mouth and begins chewing like a cow.

“It’s fine,” Keith says easily. “It’s kinda fun, actually. We don’t really do this at my house.”

“He’s going to have to get used to it, if Takashi plans on bringing him around again, Mei,” Grandpa Jin adds sagely. “I’d rather the boy know what he’s walking into before he claims we’re crazy.”

“You’re the only crazy one,” Ryou mutters, just loud enough for Grandpa Jin to hear. His hearing’s surprisingly good when he’s being talked about, but somehow extremely shitty when it’s time to take him to the doctor’s office.

“Watch it, brat. Don’t make me talk about Lucille the Gardenia.”

“You wouldn’t,” Ryou says with a glare. Jin meets his gaze head on.

“Try me.”

“Oh my god,” Aunt Mei sighs, head flopping down into her hand. “Everyone stop, please.”

“He started it,” Jin remarks, sticking his tongue out at Ryou, who throws his arms up in exasperation.

“Is no one else seeing this?” he whispers.

Shiro slides down further in his seat. Maybe he’ll be able to keep on sliding, right from the table up to his room, away from this entire mess.

After dinner, Aunt Mei begins to bring out dessert, but Shiro grabs Keith’s wrist and drags him off.

“Have fun on your nerd date!” Ryou calls, cackling, and Shiro huffs when he hears Grandpa Jin joining in.

He can faintly hear Mei calling for him, but he ignores her until they’re in the safety of his room. He flicks the light on, pulls Keith inside, and slams the door shut.

Keith raises an eyebrow. They stare at each other for about ten seconds before Keith grins at him.

“That was something.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What’d I say about that?” Keith says, punching his shoulder in what Shiro guesses is supposed to be a friendly gesture. It feels vaguely like getting hit by a truck, even if he has no idea what that even feels like.

Shiro scowls. “I mean it, though.”

Keith shrugs and sits on Shiro’s bed, not even waiting for an invitation.

“And _I_ meant it when I said it was cool. Seriously. Your family’s great.”

Shiro looks at him doubtfully.

“Even Grandpa Jin?”

“Especially him,” Keith says with a snort. “You gonna stand there all day?”

Shiro hurries to sit next to him, making sure to keep a respectable distance between them. That all goes to shit when Keith flops backwards, legs spreading out until his thigh is pressed firmly against Shiro’s.

“Your house is fucking fantastic, man,” he mutters. “Also, Jurassic Park?”

“It’s a quality franchise,” Shiro defends half-heartedly. “Do you really mean that?”

“Yeah,” Keith murmurs, sounding genuine.

Shiro swallows hard.

“We can study here sometimes. If you want.”

“That’d be awesome,” Keith says, smiling at him.

Shiro stares down at his sheets, picking at a loose thread. Across the room, Hermione is giving him a judgmental look from her designated spot on the poster. Shiro frowns at her and forces his eyes back to his hands.

“How _do_ you know Ryou?” he asks, sounding every bit like a jealous girlfriend who just went snooping through her boyfriend’s phone.

Keith raises himself up onto his elbows, turning his head to face Shiro.

“We’re not fucking, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he says bluntly. Shiro chokes on his own spit. He does _not_ need the visual of his brother doing God knows what with God knows who.

“No, not what I meant _at all_.”

Keith shrugs and drops back down.

“We go to the same parties sometimes,” he answers.

“What, really?” Shiro asks, eyes wide. “How?”

“I go where the drinks are,” Keith says. “Ryou does too, apparently.”

“Does he go to your rich kid parties?” Shiro asks, wincing when he says it.

“I fucking hate those,” Keith groans, shaking his head. He’s got his arms folded behind his head. “Too much bullshit.”

“But isn’t it like…”

“What, my scene or whatever?” Keith asks hotly. “I’m not some kind of fucking _alien_ , Shirogane.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Shiro says, stammering over his words. “I just…never mind.”

Keith’s expression softens.

“I don’t give a fuck about it.”

“About what?”

“The money. It doesn’t mean shit.”

Shiro chews gingerly at his lip.

“It helps though, doesn’t it?”

Keith gives him a cutting look that has him shriveling up beside him.

“Ryou and I are _friends_ ,” he says, stressing the word like Shiro’s an idiot. Not an unwarranted assumption, honestly. “Besides, he’s not even my type.”

“What’s your type, then?” Shiro asks. He wants to punch himself in the mouth as soon as he does. Great fucking going, Shirogane. You goddamn loser.

But Keith looks like he’s actually considering it. Shiro feels his breath get stuck in his throat and can do nothing but hope he doesn’t start choking or something.

“I don’t know,” Keith murmurs. “Someone normal.”

“Normal,” Shiro echoes. “Well, that’s definitely not Ryou.”

Keith snorts, looking at Shiro expectantly.

“You think you’re normal?”

“Me?” Shiro squeaks. He thinks about his spastic tendencies, his inability to form a sentence at any given time without sounding like he’s never spoken a word before in his life. “Uh, not exactly.”

“I think you’re normal,” Keith says with a snicker. “Mostly, anyway.”

“Um…thanks?”

Keith shrugs and gets to his feet.

“I should probably go,” he says. “I bet you’ve got some super cool things to do.”

He jerks his chin towards Shiro’s Xbox, with all his games stacked neatly up beside it. Shiro’s mouth feels desert-dry then, and he mentally prepares himself to get out his next words.

“You can come over, you know. Not just for tutoring. Just to hang out.”

“You offering?” Keith says, grinning. When Shiro feels his face get warm, Keith ruffles his hair. “Relax, I’m just fucking with you. I’ll take you up on that.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Shiro alone to stare at the door with his mouth dropped open. Aunt Mei comes in a few minutes later, a mischievous look on her face.

“Keith seems nice,” she says offhandedly. Shiro groans and falls back onto the bed, covering his face with his hands.

“Please don’t. Grandpa tortures me enough.”

“He’s just teasing,” Mei says, sitting next to him. “I think.”

Shiro whines into his hands, spreading his fingers apart to look at her face.

“Aunt Mei?”

“Hm?”

“I think I’m screwed.”

“Don’t say that, Takashi,” Mei says, lying next to him and pinching his side. “You’re a wonderful person. I think he sees that.”

“He doesn’t even like me.”

“Have you asked him?”

“Are you crazy?” Shiro asks, and Mei tuts at him.

“See? You have no idea if he does or not,” she says. “Don’t fixate on something you know nothing about. I know how that head of yours gets.”

Shiro frowns. She’s right, of course, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“I don’t want to give myself false hope,” he mutters. “I’m just prepared for nothing to happen.”

“You’re allowed to do that,” Mei says. “But don’t disregard a possibility because of what you _think_.”

“I guess,” Shiro grumbles. Aunt Mei sighs and ruffles his hair. It makes him think of Keith, then, and he feels himself freeze.

Keith ruffled his hair. Is that a thing that should make him feel like he’s going to start puking rainbows everywhere?

“Relax, Takashi. Everything’s gonna work out. Maybe not how you expect it to, but it will.”

She gets up then, stretching her arms over her head. She looked exhausted, and Shiro finds himself wondering how many extra shifts she’s picked up at the hospital. Part of the reason he wants to go into medicine is because of her. She’s works endlessly to make sure that the needs of her patients are met. He always tells her that nurses don’t nearly get enough recognition, but Aunt Mei always brushes him off. He's always admired her, ever since he was young, and finds himself hoping he ends up as generous as she is.

“Is Keith going to come over again?”

Shiro bites the inside of his cheek. “Hopefully?”

Mei presses a kiss to his hair and begins to leave.

“I look forward to it,” she says, leaning against the doorway. “Goodnight, Takashi. Remember what I said.”

Shiro nods to himself.

“Thanks, Aunt Mei. G’night.”

She smiles and gently shuts the door. Shiro crawls over his bed to flick the light off. As soon as everything’s plunged into darkness, he allows himself to take a deep breath.

Maybe one day he’ll work up the courage to do something. One day, he’ll tell Keith exactly how he feels. And whatever the outcome is, he’ll walk away with his head held high and no regrets.

It just seems like that day isn’t coming any time in the near future.


	5. Guys Like That

“I’m going to die.”

“You’re not going to _die_.”

Keith tosses a Cheeto at him. It bounces harmlessly off his temple, rolling down his face and landing on the insanely plush carpet. They’re in Keith’s room, studying again, and Shiro’s still trying to get rid of the last painful, mental reminders of today’s soccer practice.

“I am,” Shiro repeats, wiggling out from the mountain of blankets he’s buried himself beneath. “I’m going to die, and Iverson is going to spit on my grave.”

Moving aggravates the bruise on his side, the one Nathan from calculus gave him when he got subbed in. Practice had been brutal. Everyone was tired, but Iverson kept pushing and pushing and _pushing_. At the end of it, he’d cursed them out while they lined up before them, heads hung low with shame. Except Lotor, with his Pantene commercial hair and posh British accent (which Pidge insists is fake).

“Why don’t you quit?” Keith mutters then, staring at the biology notes spread out on his lap as if they’ve done something to purposefully offend him.

It’s a lazy kind of Friday afternoon, the kind where you don’t have a lot to do and are pretty much just counting down the hours until Saturday. Shiro should be doing his homework, but he seriously doesn't want to get up. The thought of grabbing his backpack and hefting up his calculus textbook makes him almost shed an actual tear.

Keith is listening to music, one earphone snug in his ear while the other hangs down the side of his neck. He raises an eyebrow at the groan Shiro releases. Shiro flicks his nose. It has no effect, really, but it makes him feel about twelve percent better about his current predicament. He releases a heavy sigh and slumps down, head propped up at an awkward angle.

“Hey,” Keith starts, holding his chin up on his hand. “There’s a party tonight, if you want to get your head off of things.”

“What?” Shiro asks, leaning up on his elbows. “Are you asking me to go?”

Keith shrugs, turning back to his notes.

“If you want. It’s not supposed to be too crazy. We both know you _hate_ the prospect of fun.”

“It’s danger, actually,” Shiro corrects with a frown. Keith rolls his eyes. "But you were close. Kinda."

“Right, sorry.”

Keith’s writing something, the soft scratch of his pencil against the paper the only sound Shiro can hear other than his own breathing. Shiro feels something like interest rise in his stomach, and it makes him feel a little sick in the excited, good way.

Keith asked him to go to a party. Keith wants him to go to a party…with him? Or is Shiro supposed to just show up and avoid him?

He almost asks, but then he realizes how incredibly stupid that would sound. So he snaps his mouth shut. Keith doesn’t bring it up again, not even when they power through history or when Shiro gets ready to leave for the night.

“See you later?” Keith says then, phrasing it like a question, and Shiro’s nerves feel like they’ve been set on fire.

“Uh, maybe,” he says, _very_ smoothly, and ignores the bark of laughter that leaves Keith when Shiro stumbles down the steps and to his bike.

 

 

 

 

 

Aunt Mei’s watching a show when he lets himself into the house, cheek propped up onto her fist. She glances over the back of the couch when he drops his bag down.

“How was practice?” she asks, genuinely curious as if suddenly Shiro will tell her he’s been taken off the bench.

He settles on jumping over the couch and dropping next to her. Aunt Mei lets his head rest on her shoulder. She runs her fingers through his bangs, gently detangling the small knots she finds.

“How about tutoring, then?” she asks, a somewhat teasing edge to her voice. “Did you have fun with Keith?”

Shiro groans and presses his face into her shoulder. She doesn’t smell like much of anything, maybe the overly-clean smell of _hospital_ if he thinks about it long enough.

“Please stop.”

“Asking you about your day?” Aunt Mei sounds shocked. “I’m just making sure you’re happy, Takashi.”

“Aunt Mei!”

“Alright, alright,” she relents. “I know he’s a sensitive topic for you. I’ll stop talking about it.”

Shiro groans and gets up, ignoring how Aunt Mei all but cackles behind him.

He trudges upstairs, leaving her to immerse herself back in the overly-complicated world of _Desperate Housewives_. How that show is still on, Shiro has no idea, but he guesses people like experiencing the drama of fictional characters as a form of entertainment.

Grandpa Jin is doing yoga in the hallway. Or attempting to, considering how he’s just laying flat on his back, yoga mat rolled out beneath him. Shiro pauses at his feet, peering at his face, trying to figure out if he’s awake or not. He leans over him, staring at his closed eyes and listening to his steady, even breathing.

“Grandpa?”

“Move, boy. You’re blocking the good juju.”

Oh, definitely awake.

“What are you doing?”

“Yoga,” Grandpa Jin says, cracking an eye open. “What’s it look like?”

“Uh, well, it looks like you’re sleeping in the middle of the hallway.”

Grandpa Jin stares him down, beady eyes narrowed into dangerous little slits.

“Good juju. _Blocked_.”

Shiro steps away from him and heads to his room, choosing to ignore that for now. He’s practically a _pool_ of good juju. It’s not his fault Grandpa Jin can’t appreciate that.

He’s still thinking about Keith _inviting him to a party_ when he gets into bed, curling right up beneath the covers without changing out of his clothes. His room feels too small, like everything is crowding in around him, and suddenly it’s like he can’t _breathe_.

He burrows his head beneath his pillow and tries to think of literally anything but Keith. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he’s jerked awake when his phone begins vibrating off his nightstand.

It clatters against the floor with a thud, but Shiro’s not worried. His Nokia could probably get run over by a tank and still work. He leans halfway across his bed and grabs it, flipping it open without bothering to check who’s calling.

“Hello?”

“Is this Shiro?”

That gets him to sit up and rub the crust out of his eyes. Why is Lance McClain calling him at, what, midnight? Actually, better yet, how the hell did he even get his number?

Well, that might not actually matter. You know, rich people. He probably threatened someone to get it. Most likely Hunk, since he’d be the quickest to cave in order to save his own skin (he tries, seriously he does, he just _crumbles_ under pressure). Matt would take a considerable amount of convincing, probably an insane amount of money too. And Pidge? Well, she’s practically a vault. Nothing will leave her, that’s for sure.

“….Shiro?”

Oh, right. Lance is on the other line.

 _Lance is on the other line_!

“Ah, yeah, sorry,” Shiro gets out, voice sounding low and sluggish. He clears his throat, shakes his head, does everything he can do to wake the hell up. “Um…what’s up?”

It sounds lame, but it’s not like there’s anything else Shiro can say at the moment. Nothing like, _hey, Lance, it’s been a while. How you doing? Well? Me too! Nice chat!_

“Is Keith with you?”

“Huh?”

“Keith,” Lance repeats, slowly, like Shiro is an idiot. Which, honestly, fair. “He isn’t picking up his phone.”

“He’s not with me,” Shiro says, suddenly wide awake. “I saw him earlier today, though. I tutor him.”

“I know,” Lance says impatiently. “He was supposed to come over after that. Has he said anything to you?”

“Um, well he mentioned a party earlier?”

“What?” Lance screeches like a goddamn pterodactyl, and Shiro actually holds the phone a few inches away from his ears to avoid getting his eardrums blown out by the sound. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No? He kinda asked me to go—”

“Jesus fuck,” Lance swears, letting out a long, aggravated breath. “He always does this shit. Look, Shiro. I get you’re trying to help him or whatever, but _don’t_. He’s just going to drag you down.”

“What?” Shiro’s beyond confused at this point. “What do you mean?”

“Keith doesn’t give a fuck about anyone but himself. At one point he did, but not anymore. You’d be stupid to think he’s not going to screw you over one day. That’s just what he _does_.”

Shiro swallows hard, feeling like this isn’t something he should be hearing.

“Aren’t you friends?” His voice sounds horrifically small, and he can’t stop himself from wincing when Lance laughs on the other line, harsh and sharp.

“Yeah. Once.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t.”

“Okay,” Shiro says instead, barely louder than a whisper.

“Let me know if he contacts you,” Lance says, and then the line goes dead.

Shiro gently shuts his phone and puts it on his nightstand. His head is spinning, so he closes his eyes and counts to ten. It doesn’t help, not really, especially when his brain keeps playing Lance’s words over to him.

He’s getting out of bed before he can think about it, walking the short distance to Ryou’s room. His brother’s awake and on the computer, headphones in and looking intently at something on his computer. Shiro flicks the light on and Ryou shouts, slamming his laptop shut.

“What the fuck?”

“What are you doing?” Shiro asks, thought process completely derailed.

“Nothing,” Ryou says, throwing a pillow at him. Shiro feels himself get warm.

“Are you watching…” He can’t even finish it, the thought making his insides shrivel up and die.

“NO!”

“Okay, okay!” Shiro says quickly once Ryou lunges for him.

“What do you want, Takashi?” Ryou settles back against the headboard, smoothing down his hair. His cheeks are stained red with blood and Shiro pointedly avoids looking at his laptop. Because no, nope, he does _not_ need to know _that_ about Ryou. No way Jose.

So he takes a deep breath to calm his nerves, ignoring the judgmental look Ryou gives him that steadily grows in intensity and general _what the fuck_ -ness.

“What kind of parties do you usually go to?”

“You want go to a party?” Ryou asks, narrowing his eyes at him. “ _You_?”

“Well,” Shiro starts, rocking on his heels. “Keith invited me to one, but I forgot to ask him where it was.”

“Oh my god,” Ryou starts, grinning wide. “You’re fucking with me, right?”

“No?”

“Takashi, you don’t go to _parties_ ,” Ryou says. “You don’t even leave your room!”

“Okay, but—”

“And you’re wearing _plaid_.”

“Wait a sec.” Shiro holds up a hand. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing, other than that plaid died in like 2012.”

“It did not!” This is one of Shiro’s favorite shirts, really, and he won’t stand for it to be so brutally insulted. Especially by _Ryou_ , who pays a hundred bucks for jeans that have a billion rips in them.

“Not the point,” Ryou declares, waving him off. “Why don’t you just ask Keith?”

“Because I’ll look lame!”

“You know guys like that are miles out of your league, right?” Ryou says, dragging his laptop back onto his lap. It stings, but Shiro squares his shoulders and stares at Ryou until his brother sighs and rolls his eyes. “But, if you really want to know, there’s a house south of Hillside that usually throws parties. Keith never misses one of those.”

“Thanks!” Shiro calls over his shoulder, already leaving the room.

“Close the door!” Ryou shouts back to him, but Shiro ignores him.

Aunt Mei’s knocked out cold downstairs, _Desperate Housewives_ still playing. Grandpa Jin is nowhere in sight, which is actually a little concerning, but Shiro doesn’t think about it for long. With his phone in his pocket and his hood drawn over his head, and quietly opens the front door and creeps out onto the porch.

He’s never snuck out before, and he honestly can’t see why kids do this. His heart feels like it’s going to pound right out of his chest. Which, really, worst feeling _ever_.

He closes the door gingerly behind himself and takes a deep breath. When he turns, though, he screams loud enough that he might as well have slammed the damn door shut.

Grandpa Jin is right behind him, in a fluffy blue robe that looks suspiciously like Aunt Mei’s. He has his arms crossed over his chest, his hair sticking up at strange angles. Shiro's too shocked to think about  _why_ Jin is even outside. He learned at a very young age to not question anything his grandfather does.

“Grandpa!”

“Going somewhere?”

“Nope, no not at all,” Shiro fumbles over his words. Grandpa Jin leans in close, close enough that Shiro can smell the harsh scent of his aftershave.

“You have your hood on.”

“It’s cold.”

“You’re avoiding eye contact.”

“You’re standing too close!”

“Son,” Grandpa Jin starts gravely, resting a heavy hand on Shiro’s shoulder. “I knew this day would come. I just never thought it’d be today.”

He throws open the door then, shouting inside.

“Mei! Get out here! Takashi’s turning into a real teenager!”

There’s the sound of something falling, and then Aunt Mei is standing in the doorway, hair a wild mess and shirt slipping off one shoulder. She quickly straightens herself out, glancing quickly between Shiro and Jin before she puts a hand over her mouth.

“Takashi?” she asks, voice soft. “Are you… _sneaking out_?”

There’s a long moment of silence that passes between the three of them. Shiro shifts uncomfortably as his aunt and grandfather lean towards him, their eyes wide with tiny smiles on their faces.

“Yes?” he says slowly, voice rising in pitch.

“Oh, honey!” Aunt Mei reaches for him, pulling him into a hug that crushes his guts.

“I knew he had it in him,” Grandpa Jin says, sniffling exaggeratedly.

“Oh my god,” Aunt Mei begins, shoving him back to look at his face. “I can’t believe this. You’re sneaking out. You’re going to a party, aren’t you? Oh, Takashi, you should’ve said something!”

“You’re not going dressed like that, are you?” Jin pipes up then, pointing at Shiro’s red plaid/black hoodie/worn jeans combo.

“That’s what I told him!” Ryou screams from upstairs, leaning out of the window, and Shiro throws his arms up in exasperation.

“Are you kidding me?!”

“I’m too shocked to yell at you right now,” Aunt Mei says, squeezing his shoulders. “But just know that you’re grounded as soon as you come back.”

“What?” Shiro barely has time before she’s pushing him off the porch. He stumbles to right himself, blindly reaching for his bike. “Are you serious?”

“Have fun,” Grandpa Jin says, waving as he sits down on one of the outdoor chairs. “Don’t drink and drive, don’t let them see you at your weakest—”

“ _Dad_ , enough!”

Okay, he needed to leave, like, _yesterday_. Shiro smiles tightly and gets on his bike, strapping his helmet on beneath his chin. He swears he hears Aunt Mei crying as he pedals away.

 

 

 

 

True to Ryou’s words, the house south of Hillside isn’t hard to find. For one, there’s a long line of cars in the driveway. The music’s loud enough that Shiro can hear it even where he’s standing outside of the gate. It’s propped open, so he stows his bike behind a thick line of hedges and wiggles his way in. Nobody calls the cops on him, so that must be a plus. Or something.

He doesn’t get why people insist on doing this. This party is no different than the one Lance had invited him to at that obnoxiously nice lake house. There’s alcohol and laughter and general good times.

And, of course, the overwhelming feeling that he’s out of his element. Shiro tugs self-consciously at the hem of his hoodie, keeping his eyes on his scuffed Converse so he doesn’t look directly at anyone.

He follows the sound of thumping bass and drunken scream-singing inside. There’s a long marble hallway that looks more like it belongs in a museum than a house. It’s warm inside, probably because rich people can afford to crank the heat on as high as they want, and also because there’s only a thousand and one people inside.

He doesn’t know what people generally do at parties like this, or even what Keith does. He’s praying it won’t be hard to find him.

Shiro picks his way through the crowd, eyes searching for anyone who remotely looks like Keith. He gets close, a few times, but not by much.

“Hey!”

Someone grabs him by the shoulder. Shiro freezes, allowing himself to be man-handled until he’s looking down at a kid with neatly-parted brown hair and a smug look on his face. He looks like the kind of jocks in those cliché teen movies Matt insists on making them watch during movie night. You know, the ones who steal the protagonist’s love interest only to be brutally taken down by pure wit at the end of the film.

“I’ve seen you before,” the kid says, and it takes Shiro a hot minute to realize he’s talking to _him_. “With Keith, right?”

“I’m, uh,” he blanks. He can’t just say tutor, can he? That wouldn’t really be cool. “Friend. We’re friends. He and I. Friends.”

“Friends,” the kid repeats, looking like he’s almost positive Shiro’s bullshitting him. But then he plasters this giant smile on his face, and Shiro feels himself relax. Marginally, at least. “You looking for him?”

“Yeah, actually,” Shiro says, perking right up. He’s making a play by play in his head, planning out which steps to take. He’ll get Keith, call Lance, and then go home. Everything will be fine. “Have you seen him?”

“Yeah,” the kid says, taking a long swig of whatever he has inside the plastic cup he’s holding. “Around. Check the powder room.”

And then he’s gone, slipping into the crowd. Shiro tries to find him again, but it’s like finding a needle in a haystack. In short: goddamn impossible. He gives up after a moment or two, scratching the back of his head.

“Powder room?” Shiro repeats to himself.

That’s a bathroom, right? He’s at least ninety percent sure that’s the kind of rich-people lingo he’ll never get. Because, you know, totally different universe and all that jazz.

He continues down the hall, trying a few doors. He walks in on a couple making out in one, and the guy starts to charge at him so Shiro slams the door shut and books it for the stairs.

It’s quieter up here, mostly because there aren’t as many kids. The few he passes by look like they’re seconds away from passing out. Shiro walks by them with a tight smile that nobody returns.

When he gets about halfway down the hall, there’s a door with a piece of lined paper taped to the front of it. _Powder Room_ , in dark letters that were probably written using a Sharpie. Shiro lingers awkwardly in front of it, deciding whether he should go in or not, when it swings open. The girl that comes out gives him a dirty look as she passes, but Shiro's too busy gawking at the sight in front of him to apologize.

There’s a crowd of people inside, all hunched over a counter. One has a credit card in his hand that he’s using to arrange loose white powder into neat lines. Everyone’s laughing, their cheeks red, eyes wide and wild, and Shiro’s breath gets stuck in his throat when he sees Keith.

He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. There’s a boy next to him. He has his head leaned against his shoulder, his quiet laughter shaking his entire body. He tangles his fingers into the hair at the back of Keith’s neck, pressing teasing kisses against his throat. Keith sniffles, rubbing at his nose, eyeing the straight lines of powder. He looks unbothered by the dude draped over him, even leaning into his touch a few times. It doesn’t take a genius to tell that he’s out of his mind high.

Shiro freezes when their eyes lock, when Keith’s blissed out look turns into one of faint recognition.

Shiro knows what he’s looking at, believe it or not. He’s sheltered, not a goddamn idiot. He knows that Keith drinks, probably does drugs like everyone else at this party is. But he doesn’t know why he feels so nauseous, or why Keith stepping towards the door has him slamming it shut and running away like a coward.

He doesn’t have a plan, really, when he races through the kitchen. He grabs a bottle off the counter, something heavy that feels like it could easily be a weapon in his hand, and he bursts through the back doors. Practically jumps down the stairs, pushes through the couple lounging on the porch, ignores their irritated screeches behind him.

He’s running, faster than he ever has in his life. Faster than he does when he’s running suicides and Iverson’s screaming at him, making him feel like he’s nothing more than an inch tall.

He stops when the manicured lawns turn into a children’s park, with brightly-colored slides and soft mulch beneath his feet. Shiro’s out of breath when he drops himself into a swing that doesn’t even creak with the addition of his weight on it.

He wrote an essay when he was ten on the dangers of consuming alcohol. He’d been the only kid in the fifth grade to get a medal and a nice drawstring bag for it. When he’d brought it home, Aunt Mei and Grandpa Jin had pinned his paper to the fridge and found somewhere to display the medal. He never told them that he’d written it with Emi in mind, that he’d thought about her passed out on the couch when he and Ryou walked home from the bus stop, and that he could smell the alcohol on her breath when she finally woke up and yelled at them for being too loud.

But now, here he is, with a bottle of stolen rum between his thighs. He’s not thinking of Emi when he rips the plastic off the top and takes a long sip. He’s thinking of Keith when he lets the rum sit too long in his mouth, when he finally swallows it and it burns like he’s just set his esophagus on fire.

He digs his phone out of his pocket, blinking back the tears that are threatening to fall. His fingers shake when he finds Lance’s number in his recent call list, and even more so when he presses his Nokia against his ear and waits for him to pick up.

“Did you find him?” Lance asks, sounding breathless.

“He’s fine,” Shiro grits out. “Nothing to worry about.”

He hangs up without another word, tossing his phone down onto the ground. It bounces before settling among the mulch. Shiro takes off his glasses, hooking them into the front of his shirt and pinches the bridge of his nose.

He feels the tears clinging desperately to his eyelashes. The rum tastes even more bitter, and the smell of it makes him want to vomit all over himself. No matter what he does, he can’t get Keith’s face out of his mind, can’t unsee the way he’d let that kid drape himself all over him, as if it didn’t mean a goddamn thing.

It hurts, more than anything he’s ever felt, and Shiro wants to scream. So he does. Screams and screams until his throat feels raw and he’s crying so hard he can’t see.

Everyone’s telling him that Keith’s not worth it, that he’s so out of his league, that he’ll never give a damn about who Shiro is, and hell, he didn’t want to believe it. He’s seen a different Keith, someone who wants to feel normal, who likes the idea of a _family_ and _unity_. Somebody who cared about how Shiro felt even when he didn’t need to. Somebody who’s far different than the spoiled rich kid who knows how to party.

But, then again, that spoiled rich kid _is_ a part of Keith. Maybe not the part Shiro sees, but its still there. And pretending that he’s different, that that isn’t a part of who he is, would be stupid. Shiro’s not blind. He knows that the Keith he saw tonight is the one most people know, the one most people think of when they hear _Keith Kogane_.

Seeing it right in front of him, seeing Keith in an environment so different than Shiro’s ever been in, fucking _terrifies_ him. There’s so much about Keith he doesn’t know, so much that, apparently, keeps people like Lance far, far away from him.

He’s not prepared for the sound of footsteps behind him, or for Keith himself to drop into the swing next to him. Shiro rushes to cap the rum, setting it down on the ground. He curls his hands around the chains suspending him, avoiding looking at Keith even when he feels him glaring holes into the side of his skull.

“Are you going to look at me?”

“Sorry,” Shiro mumbles, reluctantly raising his head. Keith scoffs.

“We talked about that.”

Shiro nods, mouth feeling like it’s been stuffed with cotton. Keith swings himself lightly beside him, occasionally bumping his knee into Shiro’s.

“Everybody does it,” he’s saying, staring at something in the distance when Shiro glances over at him.

“I know.”

“I’m not that different, you know,” Keith mutters. “I get fucked up, I fuck around. That’s what I _do_.”

Shiro flinches, gripping the chains tighter.

“I know.”

“Like hell you do,” Keith says, shaking his head. “Why the fuck were you even here, Shirogane?”

“Lance called me.”

“Lance called you,” Keith echoes, sounding pissed. “Fuck, and what, you decided it was your duty to come _save_ me?”

“He made it sound like you went missing,” Shiro replies, unsure of where the edge to his voice came from. Even Keith looks shocked by it, leaning away from Shiro with a brow raised. “I got worried.”

“Don’t do that,” Keith says. “Worry about yourself. Fuck everyone else.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not worth it,” Keith hisses, rounding on him. Shiro shrivels at the sound, his entire body seizing up. “Stop wasting your fucking time, okay? I should’ve never gone to your house, or met your family, or _fuck_ , even talked to you. So forget it, okay? I’ll see you later.”

“Wait!” But Keith doesn’t.

He just keeps going and going, until Shiro can’t see him anymore.

And that’s when Shiro slumps down into the swing, letting it hold up his weight, his head spinning. He stays there until exhaustion makes his bones feel heavy, and that’s when he scoops up his phone and slides it back into his pocket. He leaves the rum behind as he walks back towards the house.

The party’s still in full-swing, but Shiro ignores every person he comes across, every drink he smells, every song that plays as he reclaims his bike. He should go home, really, but he doesn’t. He pushes himself to pedal faster, as if he can somehow leave Keith far behind him.

It doesn’t take long to find the Holt’s house. It looks like a beacon of hope in the night, and Shiro throws his bike on the driveway before he makes his way to the back.

The Holt’s always leave the window that leads into the basement open, so Shiro wiggles inside and throws himself down on one of the mattresses. He’s not surprised that Matt’s asleep on one of the bean bag chairs and that Pidge is on her phone, the light casting eerie white shadows on her face.

“Shiro?” she hisses into the dark. “What are you doing here?”

“I think I fucked up,” he whispers into the cushion beneath his face.

There’s the sound of shuffling, and then Pidge is sitting behind him, peering over his shoulder. She groans as he drags him onto his back so she can look at his face. Shiro keeps his eyes glued to the ceiling, pretending he can’t see the inquisitive look on her face.

“He told me not to care about him.”

He doesn’t have to explain, he knows, especially when Pidge sighs and curls up beside him. Shiro turns onto his side and lets her dig her bony chin into the top of his head, one of her thin arms resting awkwardly along his waist and the other wiggling beneath his head to curl protectively around his shoulders.

“Shiro…”

“I wish I understood him,” he continues, even though it takes an incredible amount of effort to get the words out. “I wish he made _sense_.”

“Do you think he’s worth it?” she asks, voice equally as quiet. “Even a little bit?”

“I don’t know,” he says, and hearing it out loud _hurts_. “I want to think that he is.”

Pidge takes in a deep breath, one that ruffles his hair.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “for being so negative about it. I just don’t want you to get hurt. You’re like the best person in the world, Shiro. You deserve the best in return.”

“I know.”

“I wish I could help you with this,” Pidge continues. “But I can’t, and I’m sorry.”

Shiro squeezes his eyes shut, burying his face into her shoulder. She’s a warm, comforting weight beside him, and he can almost pretend that this whole night hasn’t happened. He wants to tell her that maybe she’s right, that maybe he’s an idiot after all for thinking that he and Keith could somehow manage to overcome to seemingly endless list of differences separating them.

“Thanks.” It sounds so soft, so insincere. He hates himself for even saying it in the first place, for admitting that he’s a goddamn fool who thinks he knows something when really, he doesn’t know a fucking thing. And Pidge had known that, and tried to tell him, but he’d been stubborn.

And now here they are, with Shiro regretting everything he’s ever done and Pidge letting him do it. He’s prepared for her to say _I told you so_ , to rub it into his face. But she doesn’t.

She just squeezes him tightly, and he lets her silent reassurance lull him to sleep.


	6. Always

Nobody brings up “The Incident”, as Shiro so cleverly dubs it. Matt still nudges him whenever they’re in the parking lot and happen to see Keith making his way to his bike, but Shiro doesn’t react.

Well, he jumps like he’s being electrocuted, but he doesn’t look at Keith.

Not once.

He skips out on tutoring, minimizes it to only every other week. Sometimes less, when he’s feeling particularly sorry for himself. Keith doesn’t mention it. They don’t talk about anything other than school, and Shiro pretends that the inches between them don’t feel like miles.

Even Aunt Mei and Grandpa Jin stop asking about Keith. Funnily enough, Ryou looks the most disturbed about it. He drags Shiro away after dinner one night and grills him about it, but Shiro doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing _to_ say.

He’s working the late shift again tonight. 7-Eleven is busy as usual, and the menial tasks of taking stock and ringing up customers somehow makes him feel less empty inside. He does his best not to flinch when Garrison Prep students come in, with their perfectly-coifed hair and boisterous laughter.

The bell above the door jingles again, and Shiro watches helplessly as Rolo gets up and mutters something about taking a shit. Shiro groans to himself and sits grumpily behind the counter.

He’s not prepared to see Keith enter the store with a tall, pretty girl by his side. Her hair’s electric blue, and the shitty neon lights above her head make it look even more shocking. She glances over at him, gives him a once over, and looks quickly away. Probably deciding Shiro’s not worth her time.

He swallows hard when Keith slams a six-pack of beer on the counter. He looks at Shiro expectantly, arms crossed over his chest, while his companion snaps a big bubble with her gum. She arches her eyebrows when Shiro just stares at them.

“Well?” she asks, gesturing one neatly-manicured hand towards the beer.

Shiro avoids looking at Keith as he drags the case towards himself, lifting the barcode to the scanner. He nearly drops it when Keith slams his hands onto the counter, leaning over it like he’s about to pull out a gun and tell Shiro to empty the cash register or something.

“Aren’t you going to ID us?” he asks, voice low.

Shiro shrugs, feigning nonchalance.

“No point if it’s fake,” he says. He successfully scans the beer then and slides it back towards Keith. “You want a bag?”

“You can’t sell me that,” Keith presses, practically gritting the words out. A shiver goes down Shiro’s spine. “I’m _seventeen_.”

“It’s cool,” Shiro says, the words almost getting stuck in his throat. “My boss won’t find out.”

Keith snarls at that, causing the girl next to him to shoot him a dirty look.

“You could lose your job.”

“Like I said, it’s cool.”

“Keith, what the hell?” the girl mutters, frowning and digging her elbow into his side. Keith pushes her away and glares Shiro down like he’s trying to force him into submission.

Shiro squares his shoulders, holding his chin high even as an increasingly larger part of him begins to inch closer and closer towards _Panic Town_.

“Here,” the girl slaps a handful of bills onto the counter, probably too much for what they’re buying. “Sorry about him. Keep the change.”

She grabs the beer and begins to walk off, glancing over her shoulder at Keith. When he doesn’t move, she rolls her eyes and grabs him by the arm, yanking him along behind her. Shiro listens to the clack of her heels against the floor until they’re gone.

Only then does he slump against the counter, folding his arms and shoving his face into them. His heart’s beating like crazy, and he places a hand over his chest just to make sure he’s not about to have a heart attack.

That’s, of course, the moment Rolo miraculously decides to reappear. He snags the stool Shiro had been sitting on and plops onto it, grabbing a newspaper from the stack at the far end of the counter. Shiro peeks at him from the corner of his eye.

Rolo pauses, lifting an eyebrow.

“What?” he asks, a sharp edge to his voice.

Shiro grits his teeth and stands up.

“Why are you even here if you’re not going to work?” he asks. He doesn’t know where this surge of energy is coming from, how his fear has somehow phased into annoyance.

“Hey now,” Rolo starts slowly, turning his attention back to his newspaper. “I do my part.”

“No, you run away whenever there’s a customer and conveniently reappear when they’re gone.”

“What’re you bitching for, anyway?” Rolo bites back. “You do fine out here on your own. Don’t wanna cramp your style.”

Shiro blows out a heavy breath and grabs his schoolbag from behind the counter. He’s not dealing with this. Not tonight. Probably not ever again, if he’s going to be totally honest with himself.

“I’m clocking out.”

“Already?” Rolo makes a big show of checking his watch. “You’ve got another thirty minutes.”

“Whatever. I’m leaving.”

He tries not to act like a petulant child as he storms out of 7-Eleven, but he’s not quite sure he manages that. His bookbag feels heavier than usually as he pedals home, but Shiro’s sure it’s just the irritation of the day making him more sensitive. He’s never been really good with anger. Unlike most people, he doesn’t show it. He just balls it up inside until it begins to eat him up and the stress becomes too much to bear.

Aunt Mei always gets on his case about that. He has no problem showing any other emotions he has, but something about anger makes him want to hide it away for as long as possible. He’s sure it’s connected to Emi somehow, but he likes to think that years of being treated subhuman didn’t really fuck him up as much as he thinks it has.

Aunt Mei’s waiting up for him when he gets home, as usual. Shiro pauses when he sees the mugs of hot chocolate sitting on the coffee table. She usually only makes it when things are shitty as a way to comfort him and Ryou. She never stopped, not even when they became teenagers.

Shiro kicks his shoes off and drops his bag off by the coat rack. He hops over the back of the couch and settles beside Mei, staring at the mugs. They’ve long gone cold, and it feels more like drinking chocolate milk when Shiro takes a big sip.

“I’m rethinking going to see Emi,” Mei says, and her voice is hardly louder than whisper.

Shiro’s hand jerks, spilling hot chocolate all down the front of his shirt. He’s thankful it’s cold as Aunt Mei grabs a handful of tissues and begins dabbing at the front of his shirt. Her eyebrows are furrowed, each press of the tissue against the damp fabric a bit harder than the last. She won’t look at him, not directly, and Shiro feels like there are rocks sitting in the pit of his stomach.

“Why?” he asks, not bothering to hide the way his voice cracks on the word.

“She called again,” Aunt Mei answers, crumpling the wad of soaked tissues up and tossing them onto the table. “She just, I don’t know, seemed really insistent. Like she won’t stop until someone sees her.”

“Why does it have to be _you_?”

“Dad won’t go,” Aunt Mei says with a derisive snort. “Not after what happened. And you know how Ryou gets.”

“Are you going alone?”

She’s quite for a long moment, and Shiro feels a lump begin to form in his throat.

“You want me to come.”

“I’m not going to force you.”

“But you _want_ me to.”

“Yes, Takashi,” Aunt Mei says. “I’d like you to come.”

Shiro drags his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs and digging his chin into his kneecaps. He can feel Mei watching him, waiting for him to speak, but the thing is he has no idea what to say.

He hasn’t entertained the idea of seeing his mother. Not since she called them in September, not since he and Aunt Mei decided that she wasn’t worth their time. He doesn’t know what changed, but he knows that Aunt Mei is a strong believer of second chances. She pretends to be so strong, so tough, but the thing is she’s so, so, soft.

He’s not surprised she’s rethought it, honestly. That’s just who Aunt Mei is. Even if you screw her over, she’ll come to you in need. Over and over again, despite the risk of getting herself hurt. It’s what Shiro’s always admired about her. Hell, it’s something he thinks he got from her.

“When do you want to go?”

“Soon, probably,” Mei says, chewing thoughtfully at her lower lip. “I’ve got some vacation days saved up.”

“I could probably take a few days off from school,” Shiro says. “Say it’s for an educational trip.”

“Okay,” Aunt Mei whispers, reaching forward to adjust his glasses. “Thank you, Takashi.”

He nods stiffly, waits for Mei’s hand to fall back to her side before he gets up and goes upstairs. Ryou and Grandpa Jin are sitting on top, looking at him with unreadable expressions on their faces. Grandpa Jin looks strangely serious, with no trace of mirth around his eyes. He’s not frowning, but he doesn’t need to be for Shiro to know how irritated he is.

“I told her there was no point,” Grandpa Jin says, throwing his hands around as he speaks. Ryou subtly scoots away from him, shooting Shiro a worried look. “Emi hasn’t changed. She never will.”

“Aunt Mei wants to go,” Shiro says, staring at the hole in his sock so he doesn’t have to look at his grandfather. “I’m going with her. She won’t be alone.”

“Are you insane?” Ryou hisses, jumping to his feet so suddenly that Shiro gets whiplash.

“Aunt Mei needs me.”

“Well, Aunt Mei is crazy too,” Ryou says, scowling. Grandpa Jin tugs on his arm, forcing him to sit back down. “Grandpa’s right. Nothing’s going to be different.”

Shiro grits his teeth. Maybe they’re wrong. Maybe Emi has changed. He knows there’s a slim chance of that. Honest to God he does, but he needs to do this. Aunt Mei made so many sacrifices to make sure Ryou and Shiro grew up right, that they were taken care of and _loved_. He can do this for her, even if it the idea of being in the same room as his mother makes him want to vomit from sheer nervousness.

“I know,” he says. He doesn’t offer them an explanation as he steps around Ryou and goes to his room.

 

 

 

 

Shiro’s standing on Keith’s porch, rocking awkwardly on his heels. Keith’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, scowling, glare hot enough to probably rival the Earth’s core. Shiro swears he feels a cold sweat break out along his hairline and the nape of his neck, but there’s no way in hell he’s about to check.

Keith turns abruptly on his heel, and Shiro scrambles to catch up with him. He’s not surprised, really, that the girl from last night is in Keith’s room, squeezing herself in a pair of jeans so tight Shiro almost asks her if they’re cutting off her blood circulation.

She stops when she sees Shiro, glancing quickly between him and Keith before snorting and grabbing her jacket off the bed. She leans in close to Keith, whispers something in his ear that Shiro can’t hear. He glances away so it doesn’t look like he’s eavesdropping, only daring to breathe when the door shuts behind her and her heels click away from them.

“Was that your girlfriend?” Shiro asks. He doesn’t know why he says it, but he just about wants to shoot himself in the foot after he has. Keith rolls his eyes like Shiro’s an idiot and drops himself on his bed. “She’s really pretty—”

“Acxa isn’t my girlfriend.”

Acxa. Pretty unique name. Matches the hair, somehow. Shiro files it away for later and sits stiffly on the floor. He mechanically works Keith through a handful of calculus problems.

“What, you’re not going to ask what we did last night?” Keith says suddenly, all snide and sharp. He’s sitting up on his bed, wearing a shirt two-sizes too big. The neckline droops around his shoulders, the hem almost reaching his knees, somehow dwarfing him even though Keith’s only a few inches shorter than Shiro. “Not gonna give me STD statistics, or talk about the dangers of alcohol?”

“Should I?”

“Jesus fuck, Shirogane. What is your goddamn problem?”

“What?” Shiro feels his eyes grow wide. “ _My_ problem?”

“Yes. _Your problem_.”

“I don’t have a problem,” Shiro says, waving his arms around. “You’re the one who started this.”

“Started what?” Keith snaps.

“You told me to stay away!”

Keith’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click. Shiro feels all clammy, the way he usually does in the face of confrontation and grits his teeth as he turns his back to Keith.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

Shiro’s sure he’s not supposed to hear it, with how quiet it is. He picks as a loose thread on his hoodie, wraps the thread tight enough around his finger that it hurts until it snaps.

“What did you want me to do?”

He hears Keith shift, and then he’s sliding down onto the floor so their shoulders are pressed together.

“Hell if I know.”

Shiro releases a slow, steady breath.

“That’s not really helping, you know.”

Keith tosses his head back, groaning loud and long at the ceiling. Shiro shifts awkwardly beside him, unsure of what to say. Better yet, if he should even speak at all. He watches as Keith gets up, rifling around on his desk for something.

A drawer slams shut, and Keith sits on top of his desk, lighting a cigarette. Shiro begins to open his mouth, but Keith gives him a dark look that has him shrinking in on himself.

Shiro watches the cigarette burn, watches thick, dark flakes of ash fall from the tip and flutter to the ground. Keith doesn’t put it in his mouth, not once, just stares at it as if he’s been transfixed.

“I’m gonna see my mom.”

Keith arches one dark brow, leaning back on his hands. The shirt slips further off, exposing one strong shoulder and the edge of his sharp collarbone.

“Don’t you hate her?”

“I don’t hate her,” Shiro says, and Keith tilts his head to the side. “I never did.”

“Didn’t she abandon you and your brother?”

Shiro swallows hard. “She really wants to see us. Me.”

“So what? That doesn’t mean you have to run to her.”

“Maybe she’s sorry.”

“People don’t fucking change,” Keith says, rolling his eyes. “Especially not people like _that_.”

“You don’t think it’s worth it.”

“Thought I made that obvious.”

“Then what about you?”

Keith freezes, jaw tightening so much Shiro can see it from here. He stubs the cigarette out on the desk, rolls it between his fingers as he kicks his legs lightly.

“What about me?”

“Why do you think you’re not worth it?”

“You’re not a goddamn therapist, Shirogane.”

“I’m not trying to be,” Shiro says slowly. “I just want to understand you.”

Keith gets off the desk, tossing the burnt-out cigarette into the trash. He saunters over to where Shiro’s sitting against the bed and cages him in with his arms, their faces close enough that Shiro can count each of his eyelashes, if he were so inclined.

“Don’t,” he says, and Shiro sucks in a deep breath, swearing he can feel the word rumbling against his own lips. “You’re not going to get very far.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Okay, what? Where the hell has this burst of confidence come from? Shiro’s eyes dart to his hands, still in his lap. They’re not even shaking a tiny bit. Which, wow, _weird as shit_.

Keith narrows his eyes at him, making no move to step back. Shiro doesn’t look away from him, trying to somehow convey that he’s in this for the long-haul. Whatever _this_ is.

Because, yeah, Keith maybe does shitty things, and has a generally shitty demeanor, but there’s more to him than that. It doesn’t matter that the idealized version of Keith that’s been living in Shiro’s head for the past three years has been shattered. This Keith, the real, living, breathing Keith in front of him, needs help.

What kind of help, Shiro doesn’t know. But he can feel it, and damn it, he’s not turning away.

“I’m not gonna give up on you,” Shiro adds, because his brain-to-mouth filter is shot. He’s tired and emotional, and hell, honesty is the best policy. Or so they say.

“Bad move,” Keith declares, finally stepping away.

Well, at least he knows what Keith smells like now. Not anything easily identifiable, of course, because nothing about Keith exactly screams _easy_. But there’s something almost safe about his scent, something that makes Shiro want to stay by him for as long as possible.

Or maybe it’s just his deodorant. Who knows.

The rest of session goes by without much incident. Shiro packs his books up at the end of it, chancing a look at Keith every now and then. He’s got his arms crossed again, frowning like he’s deep in thought.

“Hey.”

“What?” Keith looks at him. Shiro forces a tiny smile on his face.

“Sorry,” he says. Keith snorts.

“Say it when you mean it,” he says, flicking Shiro’s forehead. “Whatever happens is on you now.”

Shiro’s smile widens.

“I can live with that.”

 

 

 

 

Aunt Mei waits until Christmas break to drive down to Phoenix to see Emi. Ryou bitches the entire time as he helps them load up the Sentra. He doesn’t stop, not even when Grandpa Jin loses his patience and tells him to shut up.

“You’re gonna end up driving right back,” Ryou says confidently, smug grin on his face as he shoves the last of their luggage into the trunk. “And then I’m gonna say I told you so.”

Shiro doesn’t bother giving him a response. He gets into the passenger side, slamming the door shut on his brother before he can say anything else. He’s clutching his Nokia hard enough to hurt.

He flips it open, clicking down to Keith’s name. His fingers are shaking as he types out his message.

**_Going to see my mom today._ **

He doesn’t know why his heart begins to race after sending the text. He nearly drops his phone when the reply comes in.

_Merry fucking Christmas to you_

Somehow, Keith’s answer makes him laugh. It eases the tight bundle of nerves that have settled in his gut. Shiro tucks his phone away just as Aunt Mei gets into the driver’s seat. She strips her gloves off, tossing them into the back seat.

“Ready to go, kiddo?”

She’s smiling, and Shiro pretends he can’t tell how forced it is.

The drive to Phoenix takes longer than it should, mostly because of traffic. Aunt Mei passes time by singing along to the radio or telling stories about Ryou and Shiro when they were kids. Shiro replies to a few texts from Hunk, Pidge, and Matt, all of them varying degrees of _good luck_ (Hunk, the pure soul), _Merry Christmas_ (Matt, short and sweet), and _do I need to kick her ass?_ (Pidge. Of course it’s Pidge).

After he sends out his _thanks, you too, no, that’s probably illegal_ texts, he settles back into his seat. That’s the moment Mei pulls into a paved driveway, leading up to a tan house, complete with a garage and neat little wrap-around-porch. It looks like it belongs in a Hallmark movie. Shiro can practically imagine the heart-warming conversations that would take place on the porch.

He imagines Emi’s baby old enough to play in the yard, running around and laughing while Emi chases them. It hurts, more than anything Shiro can think of at the moment, and he forces the thought away. He’s not jealous of a damn _baby_.

They haven’t packed much. The plan is to stay for a week, but there’s the silent implication that if it gets to be too much, they’ll leave sooner than that. Shiro grabs his bookbag, heavy with his textbooks. He’s going to spend as much time as he can studying. Anything to avoid acting like this is some normal, happy family get-together.

The door’s opening then, and Shiro’s breath gets caught in his throat. Emi’s standing there, waving at them, dressed in a fluffy sweater that looks warm. Her hair is long, longer than it’d been when Shiro was a child. Her cheeks are full, not gaunt like they are in his memories of her.

But, more than anything, she looks _happy_. Shiro didn’t think she was ever capable of that.

Walking to the porch feels like a death march. Shiro stays behind Mei until they’re standing in front of Emi.

“I can’t believe you came,” Emi says, eyes shining as she pulls her sister into a hug.

Shiro shifts uncomfortably. His aunt looks like a little girl now, drowning in her puffy winter coat. She’s unbelievably small beside him, transported back into time at the sight of her older sister. The same older sister that tore their family apart, that cared for no one but herself.

Aunt Mei steps aside, revealing Shiro. He grips the straps of his bookbag hard, mind blank as he looks at Emi. Her eyes widen and she reaches for him as if in a trance, grabbing onto his arm.

“Look at you,” she says reverently. “You’re all grown up!”

“That’s what happens,” Shiro mutters. Emi smiles sadly.

“I’m glad you’re here, Takashi.”

He’s almost impressed that she can tell who he is, that he hasn’t been mistaken for Ryou, but then realizes that Aunt Mei had probably told Emi he was coming.

Emi ushers them inside, talking a mile a minute. She’s an up-and-coming fashion designer, and her husband Tyler is an investment banker from Portugal. They met through a mutual friend, and it was love at first sight.

“That sounds nice,” Aunt Mei says. Shiro can’t tell if she’s being diplomatic, or if she really means it. “I’m happy for you, Emi.”

Emi preens under the praise before turning her attention towards him.

“What about you, Takashi?” she asks. “You and Ryou must be getting ready for college.”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, stiffening. He relaxes when Aunt Mei slides her hand into his and squeezes. “Ryou’s taking a gap year. And I, well, I want to go to medical school. NYU, if I’m lucky enough.”

“NYU,” Emi echoes, seemingly impressed. She arches a brow at Aunt Mei. “Are you really going to let him go that far?”

“I want him to be happy,” Aunt Mei says, rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand. “That’s all that matters to me.”

A shadow passes over Emi’s face, something that almost looks like guilt, but it’s gone in an instant.

Gone, because a man, probably Tyler, is walking downstairs with a wrapped bundle in his arms. Emi jumps up at once, grabbing the bundle and lifting it into the air.

“Hi, baby!” she squeals, voice obnoxiously high.

“Hi, I’m Tyler,” Tyler walks over to them, hand held out for a handshake.

“Takashi,” Shiro murmurs.

Emi’s smiling softly, rocking the baby in her arms. Shiro can’t breathe, not when the baby grabs her finger or when Emi stops in front of him.

“Do you want to hold your sister, Takashi?” she asks.

Sister. _Sister_.

Shiro has a sister, because Emi had a baby. A baby she, obviously, wanted very, very much. Not like him. Not like Ryou.

He hesitates for too long, because Aunt Mei swoops in and takes the baby from Emi. Shiro glances at her from the corner of his eye. She’s got red, chubby cheeks. Her hands are tan, and she looks more like Tyler than Emi. But she has Emi’s eyes, the same eyes Shiro and Ryou have.

She gurgles, staring at Shiro. He jumps when Emi settles on the couch beside him, leaning towards him.

“Her name’s Ayaka,” she tells them.

Aunt Mei freezes, Ayaka pressed against her.

“You named her after mom?”

“I thought she’d like it,” Emi says.

“She’s beautiful, Emi,” Mei says quietly. “Perfect.”

“Thank you,” Emi says, accepting her daughter when Aunt Mei holds her out towards her.

They eat dinner afterwards, and it’s a mostly silent affair. Emi asks him a hundred questions, like how’s school and what sports does he play. They’re shallow, superficial questions that don’t require any thought on his part. He’s grateful for that, because the thought of actually putting together an intelligent answer when his brain feels like a bowl of soup is downright terrifying.

“So, Takashi,” Emi starts, dabbing delicately at her mouth with a napkin. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

Tyler chuckles at that, and Emi elbows him. Aunt Mei fumbles with her fork, and flashes everyone a quick smile when it clatters onto her plate. Shiro shifts in his seat, rubbing his sweaty palms on his thighs.

“I, uh, no. I don’t. I’m not…” he says, hardly louder than a whisper.

Emi’s eyes grow round.

“Oh!”

“Is that a problem?” he asks before he can stop himself. He’s tired of this, of them pretending that everything’s okay and that Emi doesn’t completely suck. He’d rather be at home, even if it means Grandpa Jin going on and on about how Christmas is a purely commercial holiday now, a plot devised by the government to further rob people of their money.

Tyler clears his throat, breaking Shiro’s train of thought.

“Hey, whatever makes you happy. Right, Emi?” he says. He’s trying so hard to be politically correct that Shiro can fucking _taste_ it.

“Of course,” Emi says, giving him a plastic grin.

Shiro shakes his head, shoving back from the table.

“I’ve gotta use the bathroom,” he says.

He makes his way upstairs, to the guest room where Emi had taken their things. He slams the door shut, not giving a damn about how it sounds, and sinks down onto the ground.

He’s digging into his pocket, grabbing his phone and punching in the number he’s already memorized, embarrassingly enough. It takes a while for Keith to answer, so much so that Shiro almost hangs up.

“Hello?”

“You’re right,” Shiro says, eyes burning with frustration. “People don’t change. She didn’t care about me then, and she doesn’t now.”

Keith is quiet for a long moment. Shiro rubs furiously at his face, cheeks burning as the rough fabric of his sweatshirt drags against his skin.

“…My uncle took me in after my parents died. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. He’s never home. He doesn’t care about how I’m doing. He never has.”

Shiro sniffles, pressing his hand over his eyes.

“Your uncle sucks,” he says, voice watery, and Keith laughs richly in his ear.

“I know. But I don’t let it bother me. I can’t change him. There’s nothing I can do, so I don’t fixate on it.”

“Is this your way of telling me to get over it?”

“Maybe.”

Shiro snorts then, sucking in the snot that threatens to dribble down his lip.

“I wish I didn’t care.”

“I wish you didn’t either,” Keith says, so honest that Shiro’s breath feels like it’s been physically pulled out from his lungs.

“Is life always going to be this shitty?"

"Always," Keith says, as if he's an expert on the difficulties of life. Hell, maybe he is. "It doesn't get easier. You just learn to deal with it."

"Keith?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

Keith's quiet for a moment. And then:

"You're welcome."

Shiro hangs up, pressing his head back against the wall. The door inches open, and Aunt Mei pokes her head into the room.

“Takashi?” She shuts the door softly behind herself and joins him on the floor. “Are you okay?”

“I thought it was going to be different,” he mutters, letting her pull him into her side. “I thought I could handle it, but I don’t think I can.”

“I think she’s trying to prove it to me,” Aunt Mei murmurs. “Prove that she can make it, that she’s not so far beyond help. That she’s changed.”

“Has she?”

“On the surface, maybe,” Mei says.

“Do we have to stay here for the rest of the week?”

“God, no,” Aunt Mei says instantly. “I think I’d lose my mind if we did.”

Shiro chuckles, pressing his face into her shoulder.

“Do you ever wish you had your own kids?” he asks.

“Hm?”

“You know, like how Emi has Ayaka,” he says, lifting his head. “Didn’t you ever want that?”

“I did,” Aunt Mei says, grabbing his hands and holding them tight in her own. “And then I got you and Ryou. I don’t think of you as my nephews. I think of you as _mine_.”

Shiro can’t stop the tears from leaking. Aunt Mei pulls him into a bone-crushing hug, rubbing a hand down his back. He lets everything out, cries because of Emi’s brand-new family, cries because she didn’t give a shit about them, cries because he remembers Aunt Mei and Grandpa Jin taking them in, giving them a home, protecting them from whatever they possibly could.

He remembers the car ride to Garrison, when he’d held Ryou’s hand, both of them strapped into their car seats. They’d just been taken from Emi’s home, and he remembers thinking over and over again that their mother hadn’t even fought to keep them. She just handed them over, as if she couldn’t wait to get rid of them.

Like they were a nuisance to her.

 _“How long are we going to stay with you?”_ Ryou had asked. Shiro hadn’t dared to speak.

 _“Forever,”_ Aunt Mei had answered.

 _“That’s a long time,”_ Shiro had piped up then, and Grandpa Jin had turned in his seat to look at them.

_“We’re not going to leave you. We promise.”_

And Shiro had cried bitterly, as much as he is now. Even Ryou had cried, and his brother hardly ever did.

“Thank you,” he says, but it doesn’t feel like it’s enough. Shiro doesn’t think it ever will. “I love you, Aunt Mei.”

“I love you too, Takashi,” she says. “Forever and always.”


	7. A Goddamn Thing

Aunt Mei has them on dish duty tonight, so Shiro’s washing and Ryou’s supposed to be drying. In reality, he’s just lazily wiping the dishtowel along the wet cups and plates before setting them aside. He’s uncharacteristically quiet, which makes this uncomfortable, itchy feeling crawl up Shiro’s spine.

He doesn’t have “twin sense” or whatever stupid thing Matt is convinced he has (“But Shiro, you guys developed from the same zygote! That _has_ to mean something!”), but he knows his brother well enough to tell when something’s off.

“You’re acting weird,” Shiro says. Which, hey, so smooth. Ryou will _definitely_ spill his guts to you now.

He’s prepared for the irritated quirk for Ryou’s brow, and watches him set a plate down with more force than necessary.

“Do you regret it?” Ryou asks then, voice low. Shiro almost asks him to repeat it, but something tells him that won’t go over well.

“Regret what?” he says instead. In the other room, he can hear Grandpa Jin watching television, and if he really strains, Aunt Mei doing laundry in the basement.

“Going to see Emi.”

The plate Shiro’s scrubbing slips through his soapy fingers. The ceramic shatters into a thousand pieces in the basin, jagged and threatening when Shiro looks down at them.

“Shit,” Shiro murmurs, reaching down and grabbing the larger ones. Ryou picks up the garbage pin and takes it over to the sink. Together, they clean up the remains of the plate.

Ryou’s still holding the garbage bin when Shiro drops a quarter in the swear jar. Shiro swallows hard, leaning against the island and waiting for his brother to speak. Ryou sets the garbage pail down and sighs loudly.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Shiro says, rubbing at his arm. “I don’t know. Maybe I do.”

“Regret it?”

“Yeah.”

“Was she the same?” Ryou asks softly.

Shiro nods slowly. “I don’t know if she’s actually happy, or better at pretending that she is.”

“Fuck,” Ryou snarls, shaking his head. “I fucking told you, Takashi. I knew it.”

“I know,” Shiro says.

He’d had Ryou’s words playing in his head as he and Aunt Mei left Emi’s house. She put on a great show, acting as if she was sad they were leaving so soon. Shiro could tell she was relieved, though, and that she hadn’t bought Aunt Mei’s lie about being on call at the hospital for a single second.

In short, Shiro had left without any kind of resolution. His mother's reasoning for abandoning them was still unclear, and the reminder that she just hadn't wanted them still hangs over his head like a storm-cloud.

Grandpa Jin shuffles into the kitchen, scratching at his stomach over his shirt. He looks quickly between Ryou and Shiro before he nods to himself.

“I see what’s going on here,” Grandpa Jin begins solemnly. “You’re conspiring to get rid of me. Gonna snuff me out in my sleep, are ya?”

“What?” Shiro whispers, beyond confused, just as Ryou throws his hands up in a universal _what the actual fuck_ gesture.

“I’m on to you,” Grandpa Jin continues, pointing at them both. As he fills up his mug with water, he shoots a wink at Shiro.

Ah. Grandpa Jin had probably heard them, and stepped in to diffuse the situation. Sometimes Shiro forgets how perceptive he is. He’s so used to trying to understand the whole “crazy, conspiracy theorist old man” thing Jin’s got going on.

“How’re the dishes coming along?” Aunt Mei pokes her head into the kitchen then, laundry basket on her hip.

“Done,” Ryou says.

“There was a mild casualty, but the body was quickly disposed of,” Shiro pipes up.

Ryou groans overdramatically while Grandpa Jin laughs until he wheezes. Aunt Mei chuckles, her eyes shining as she walks over to pinch his cheek.

“You crazy kid,” she says fondly, as Shiro beams at her.

Once Aunt Mei inspects the dishes and announces that they’re up to her standards, Shiro retreats to his room. Ryou follows him in, and they set up Shiro’s dust-covered Xbox.

“You never told me how that party went,” Ryou says, flipping over one of Shiro’s many games and reading the blurb on the back. “You embarrass our family name or anything like that?”

“No,” Shiro says, cringing when he thinks of that night. “Hey, Ryou?”

“What?”

“How _do_ you know Keith?”

Ryou sets the game down gingerly on the stack and flops down into the beanbag chair at the foot of Shiro’s bed. He easily catches the controller Shiro lobs at him, which makes Shiro a hundred and thirty percent sure that Ryou had inherited all the genes that coded for athleticism in the womb.

 _Selfish_ , he thinks, laughing at his own joke, until he sees the puzzled expression on his brother’s face.

“We party together sometimes. That’s it, really.”

“You don’t know anything about him?”

“No, Takashi,” Ryou says, sounding impatient. “We didn’t spill our sob stories, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“I’m not,” Shiro instantly refutes, cheeks feeling warm from the sudden rush of blood that fills them. “I was just curious.”

“You like him.”

Shiro chokes on his spit.

“I tutor him—”

“Oh my god, give it a rest already,” Ryou moans, tossing his head back. Shiro frowns and presses start on the game, just to be petty. Ryou squeaks and rushes to ready to his character. “Don’t be a bitch. It’s not my fault you suck at lying.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to bring it up!”

“My job is literally to expose you every chance I get,” Ryou points out, smirking as he annihilates Shiro’s character.

Shiro doesn’t pout. Really.

“Whatever,” he mutters, a totally respectable response in his eyes. Ryou snorts and pauses the game, shifting in the chair to fully face him.

“Takashi.”

“What?”

“Maybe you should tell him.”

“Uh…what?”

“You heard me,” Ryou says, grabbing the nearest pillow and whacking him with it. “I think you should. How long do you think you’re going to be able to do this whole tutoring thing without feeling anything? Be honest.”

“For a while, actually.”

“I said be honest!”

“I am!” Shiro says, blowing an irritated breath through his teeth. Ryou scowls before his expression softens.

“ _Takashi_.”

“I’m scared, okay?” Shiro finally says. It sucks to say it again, maybe even worse than admitting it to Mrs. Garrett. “I feel like no matter what, people are going to leave me.”

“You’re a goddamn idiot,” Ryou says fiercely.

“That happened before. With Emi.”

“Stop talking about her,” Ryou grits out. “She doesn’t mean a goddamn thing to us, okay? She never will. Forget her.”

“I can’t just forget her!” Shiro says, waving his arms wildly in frustration. The blank look Ryou pins him with makes his irritation spike just _that_ much more. “She’s our mother, and she _left us_. Why are you so okay with that?”

“You think I’m okay with that?” Ryou snarls, standing up now. The controller on his lap clatters onto the ground. “You think it didn’t fuck me up, that I don’t give a damn about it?”

“You don’t act like you care.”

“Fuck you,” Ryou says, shoving him. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Stop saying that!”

“Then stop fucking acting like it!” Ryou shoves him again, and something in Shiro just _snaps_.

He’s never gotten into a fight before, never made a fist, if you don’t count that time Keith took him boxing. But it comes naturally now, the curl of his fingers, the punch he aims at Ryou, the almost satisfying crunch of his nose beneath them.

There’s a rush of blood then, and Ryou’s yelping in pain. And time just…stops. Shiro freezes, crouched over his brother, shaking. He sits back, watching as Ryou cups a hand around his nose, glaring at Shiro from the corner of his eye.

“Emi didn’t hate you, Takashi,” he says, voice low. “She hated _me_. You were the perfect golden child, and I was the kid who never knew how to shut up. She’d beat the shit out of me while you were asleep, you know. And our father just fucking watched. Sometimes he’d hold me down or cover my mouth so I couldn’t scream.”

“Stop,” Shiro whispers.

“Why?” Ryou says, smiling cruelly. “You think you’re the only one who got affected? Think again, Takashi. Your life isn’t the only one that got fucked.”

The door slams open then, and Aunt Mei and Grandpa Jin stare at them like they’ve just caught them committing a crime.

“What is going on here?” Aunt Mei demands, looking between Shiro and Ryou. Her eyes narrow when she sees the blood smeared on Ryou’s face, and on Shiro’s knuckles.

“Get up,” Grandpa Jin directs towards Ryou, uncharacteristically serious.

Ryou gets up, and Aunt Mei follows him into the bathroom to assess the damage. Grandpa Jin steps fully into the room, slowly shutting the door behind him. He shuffles towards the bed, and sits down next to Shiro with a heavy sigh.

“What happened?”

“We got into a fight.”

“I’m old, not blind,” Grandpa Jin says, flicking Shiro’s nose. “What were you fighting about?”

“Keith. Emi.”

Jin scowls. “What for?”

“Ryou thinks I should tell Keith that I, uh, you know.”

“He’s right.”

“It’s not that easy,” Shiro instantly refutes, ignoring the skeptical brow Grandpa Jin raises at him. “Seriously.”

“It’s gonna eat you alive if you don’t, boy,” Grandpa Jin warns him. “What about your mother?”

Shiro swallows hard.

“Did you know that Emi used to hit him?”

A shadow falls over Grandpa Jin’s face. He leans forward, head hung low. Shiro curls his knees to his chest, his eyes burning.

“Grandpa?”

“There were a lot of reasons we needed to get you boys out of there,” he says simply. “That was one of them.”

“I didn’t know,” Shiro whispers. “He never said anything. Nobody told me anything.”

“You were young,” Grandpa Jin answers. “There was no point.”

“But I’m not now.”

“There’s nothing you can do about it,” Jin continues. “All we can do is move forward. You know how your brother is. He doesn’t express himself, he’s afraid of being vulnerable. He wouldn’t tell Mei and I at first. But we figured it out.”

“I really messed up, Grandpa,” Shiro says, feeling beyond ashamed. How could he not have known how much Ryou struggled? Had he really been so stuck in his own head that he never thought about someone else?

“It’s okay,” Grandpa Jin says, but Shiro doesn’t believe him. Not for one second.

Jin pulls him into his side. Shiro goes willingly, folding his body alongside his grandfather’s. He feels like a child again, warm and secure, with Grandpa Jin to protect him from the big, bad world.

Grandpa Jin doesn’t say anything. He lets Shiro cry into his shoulder, and wipes his tears away with his calloused fingers. When Shiro catches the severe expression on his face, he thinks for a moment that he’d give anything to have Grandpa Jin joking around like usual. His grandfather’s only serious when it really counts, preferring to go through life with a smile and laughing at whatever he can.

But now, Shiro can’t help but to wonder what he’s thinking. He’s sure Grandpa Jin’s disappointed in them. They were raised to never raise a hand to each other, to settle disputes with their words and not their fists.

“I wish I knew where I went wrong,” Grandpa Jin says then. “I gave Emi and Mei everything I could. I loved them with everything I had. But Emi...”

“Grandpa, it wasn’t your fault,” Shiro insists, sitting up. “Look at Aunt Mei. She turned out just fine.”

“Emi couldn’t handle your grandmother’s death,” Jin mutters. “She and her mother were close. They were always teaming up together, usually against me.”

Shiro chews at the inside of his cheek. “What was Grandma like?”

“She was vibrant. Full of life. She always had a smile on her face, always tried to make someone laugh. After she died, I tried to emulate her. Don’t think I was very successful, though.”

Shiro doesn’t know what to say. It’s like all the words and thoughts running around his brain have been wiped clean, and he has no choice but to gape at his grandfather.

“You’re one of the best people I know. Seriously,” Shiro finally settles on. It doesn’t feel like enough, but it gets a small smile out of his grandfather.

“Thank you,” he says, bringing Shiro close and pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Talk to your brother, alright? I don’t want you two going to bed mad at each other.”

“Okay, Grandpa.”

Grandpa Jin pats his shoulder and gets up. Shiro watches him until he disappears through the door. Aunt Mei comes in a few minutes later, looking exhausted. Shiro winces, knowing that he’s probably the cause of it.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. He hears Keith’s head in his voice, reminding him to say it when he means it. This time, he does. He really, really _does_.

“I know, Takashi,” Aunt Mei murmurs. “Ryou’s nose is fine. It’ll bruise, but it’s not broken.”

“Did he tell you what happened?”

“Yes,” Aunt Mei says, crouching in front of him. She pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Don’t worry, I gave it to him. He shouldn’t have pushed you.”

“I shouldn’t have punched him either.”

“You’re right.” Aunt Mei cups his cheek. “I wish we could all just forget everything, you know? But I don’t know how to move past this. I can’t imagine how it must be for you two. Dad and I didn’t live through what you did.”

Shiro shrugs, ignoring the way Aunt Mei frowns.

“It’s okay, Aunt Mei.”

“Takashi,” Mei begins with a heavy sigh. “If I could take all of that away, I would.”

“I know,” Shiro mumbles, flashing her a quick smile. “Is Ryou still mad?”

“I don’t know,” Aunt Mei says, shaking her head. “He clammed up on me. I think Dad’s checking on him right now.”

“Grandpa said I should talk to him.”

“He’s right,” Aunt Mei agrees. “Your brother loves you, and I know how much you love him. It’s just a really hard time for the both of you. You need each other more than anything right now.”

Shiro nods, taking it all in. Aunt Mei pats his knee and stands up.

“I’m heading to bed now. Try and get some sleep, okay?”

She kisses his forehead and leaves. Shiro waits until he hears her door close before he crosses the hall to Ryou’s room. His brother’s awake, laptop on his lap. He glances up when Shiro eases the door shut behind himself.

“I’m really sorry,” Shiro starts, feeling like there’s a rock in his gut. “I should’ve never gone that far.”

“I’m sorry too,” Ryou says. “I just lost it, I guess. Wasn’t your fault. I was just being a dick.”

“Hey,” Shiro interjects with a frown.

“What? It’s true.”

Shiro weighs his next words in his mind, trying to figure out how best to word them. It helps that Ryou’s attention is turned back to his computer, that he isn’t staring at him, waiting for Shiro to speak.

“Hey.”

“Hm?”

“If something happens to you,” he starts, slowly, waiting for Ryou to look at him before he continues, “will you tell me?”

“Something like what, exactly?”

“I don’t know. Anything.”

Ryou’s quiet for a while. Shiro shifts awkwardly, wondering if he’s somehow gone too far.

“Okay,” Ryou finally answers.

“Thank you,” Shiro says, with a relieved breath. “Hey. I love you.”

“Yeah,” Ryou says, cheeks pink as he sinks down into his bed. “Love you too.”

 

 

 

 

When Shiro arrives at Keith’s house on Saturday evening, there’s a mountain of beer cans by the curb. Shiro stares at it for a long time before he shakes his head and punches in the code for the gate. It buzzes open, and he walks his bike in to the front of the house, where he stashes it by the porch steps.

The door’s open, so Shiro steps in and peels off his jacket and stows his shoes away in the rack. He’s just closing the door when he hears footsteps.

“Wild night?” he calls over his shoulder at Keith.

Keith groans, tossing his head back. He’s in tight jeans and a tighter black shirt. His hair looks like he’s been swept through a tornado, which Shiro points out before he can stop himself. It earns him a well-deserved glare in return.

They go to Keith’s room, like always, and Shiro almost says something about Acxa not being around. He feels the sharp pain of jealousy swirl in his gut, and he quickly pushes it down.

They work in silence for a while until Keith groans again and slams his textbook shut, kicking it towards the end of the bed. Shiro watches him from his designated spot on the floor, back aching from the awkward way he’s been hunched over his own work.

“Why?” Keith asks, without any context.

Shiro finds himself furrowing his eyebrows. Has he somehow missed something? Matt usually complains that he gets so engrossed in his work that he ignores everything around him. Maybe that’s what happening here. Shiro’s somehow missed an entire conversation between them, and now Keith is questioning why he even let Shiro into his house.

 “Huh?” Shiro says, oh so intelligently.

“Why are you still here?” Keith continues. “Why the hell haven’t you run away yet? What do you even _want_?”

Shiro shifts uncomfortably, gripping his pencil hard enough that a tiny part of his brain worries he’s about to crack it right in half.

“I feel like you’ve asked me this before.”

“And _I_ feel like you gave me a bullshit answer,” Keith snaps. “I don’t know if you noticed this, but I don’t exactly have a whole lot of people sticking around me.”

“But you have friends, right?” Shiro says, voice meek when Keith gives him a glare cold enough to freeze over hell.

“I don’t have friends, Shiro,” Keith says flatly. “I have people I _fuck_. I have people I use and throw away when I’m done with them.”

Shiro cringes and Keith laughs, dark and quiet.

“See? You don’t want that from me, right?”

He crawls over to Shiro then, leans over him so Shiro has no choice to but to stare right at him, his heart practically trying to jump right out of his chest. He can’t breathe, suddenly, and it’s as if Keith’s gigantic mansion has shrunk into a shoebox apartment right then and there.

“So. What. Do. You. _Want_?”

It’s a demand, phrased as a question. Shiro is trapped, and his only hope of escape is to answer. His tongue feels too big for his mouth, and his brain has become absolutely _useless_. Everything he thinks of sounds stupid, something that he’s downright terrified Keith will laugh at. But he doesn’t have a choice. It’s a speak now or forever hold your peace kind of deal.

And all he can hear is Grandpa Jin in his head, telling him that he’s sure he’s been noticed. And Aunt Mei, saying that he shouldn’t fixate on something he knows nothing about. There’s Ryou, telling him to get it over with, calling him an idiot. Mrs. Garrett, reminding him not to be scared.

But most of all there’s Pidge, wondering if this is really something he wants to do, if Keith is even worth his time. And Shiro, for whatever reason, just wants to prove her _wrong_. Prove that he can be trusted with his own feelings, that he’s not nearly as naïve and giving and goddamn stupid as he thinks he is.

So he sucks in a breath, steels himself to say:

“I want to mean something.”

It out there, the words hanging between them the same way raindrops hang heavily in the clouds, waiting to pour down on the Earth below. Shiro feels like he’s choking on something, maybe the tension in the air or his own embarrassment.

Keith makes this sound them, something quiet and wounded, like Shiro’s just socked him in the jaw. Shiro quickly checks his hands, just to make sure, but they haven’t moved from where they’ve been clenching his pencil and textbook in a death-grip.

“You’re in the wrong place for that,” Keith finally grits out. “I don’t usually tend to give a shit about other people.”

“I know.”

“How are you okay with that?”

“Because it’s you,” Shiro says, and it sounds so goddamn cheesy that he hates himself for it.

Keith’s expression doesn’t change. He still looks angry as shit, like he might use Shiro as his own personal punching bag in the next few moments. But beneath that, there’s something else. Something that Shiro can’t put a finger on, but it looks so familiar, like he’s experienced that same feeling a hundred times. He thinks for a moment that it might be longing, but there's no way that's it. Keith doesn't want him. Not like how Shiro wants him to.

“This doesn’t mean a goddamn thing,” Keith tells him.

And then, he kisses him.

It’s nothing like how Shiro envisioned kissing Keith would be. It’s messy, uncoordinated, the kind of kiss that never makes it into a romance novel. There’s something rough about it, something that hurts beyond the tiny bite of Keith’s teeth into his lower lip. There’s the reminder, the ever-present, blaring neon sign that declares that something like this will never end in sunshine and rainbows and unicorns.

There’s only going to be heartache, and pain, and probably, at the end of it all, loss.

But Shiro kisses Keith with everything he has. It’s not his first kiss (that had been in the seventh grade, during a game of seven minutes of heaven with this named Curtis who Shiro had never talked to before. Everyone had acted so grossed out about it, but that had been the moment Shiro realized he maybe, sort of, _really_ liked guys). And Keith kisses him back, and for one beautiful second, Shiro pretends that this is the happy ending he’d envisioned, the best-case scenario that he could only dream of.

That can only last for so long, though. Keith pulls away, and Shiro gets this tight feeling in his chest, like there’s a hand around his heart squeezing and squeezing and _squeezing_.

“Not a goddamn thing,” Keith says then, sounding wrecked, and Shiro can’t stop looking at him.

His lips are red, maybe even redder than his motorcycle. And he’s breathing heavy, and he’s pissed but he looks so goddamn satisfied. Something like pride swells in Shiro’s chest then, something that overtakes that ever-present feeling of _oh god, I fucked up_.

 _I did that_ , he thinks. He did that to Keith. He did something he never thought of as more than a fantasy.

Shiro’s not an idiot, though. He knows that feeling of happiness is temporary, that when he goes home, alone, and falls asleep, alone, he’s going to remember Keith telling him it doesn’t mean a goddamn thing, going to remember the way Keith had bitten him, like the pain would be a reminder that none of this would ever fucking _matter_.

Keith sits back, gets out of Shiro’s space. That’s the exact moment his breath suddenly returns, and he rakes a hand through his hair, adjusts his glasses. Neither of them say anything, but Shiro figures this is one of those occasions where words will make everything one thousand percent worse.

So he keeps his mouth shut. They naturally fall back into their work, and Shiro loses himself in European history and philosophy and the ever-exciting world of biology.

And then he’s leaving, and Keith’s walking him to the door, but before he can step over the threshold Keith grabs his arm.

“I can’t give you what you want,” Keith says. “You can walk away and it’ll be fine. You won’t get hurt.”

Shiro gently wiggles out of Keith’s hold.

“It’s too late for that.”

He doesn’t turn to see what kind of expression is on Keith’s face. Probably because he’s too afraid there won’t be anything at all. It’s easy to grab his bike, to pedal through the gate, to go anywhere but _here_.

It’s easy because it means he doesn’t have to deal with it. He can leave Keith behind in Hillside, with the mansions and parties and _money_. That’s where Keith belongs. With people who don’t want to know him, who don’t care about anything but having a good time.

Keith doesn’t want him. He doesn’t want _Shiro_.

He hasn’t said it, not directly, but Shiro doesn’t need him to. Shiro is everything Keith is not, and there’s not a goddamn thing in the world that can make them fit together.

 

 

 

 

It’s group bonding time tonight, so Shiro spends ten minutes outside of the Holt’s trying to erase Keith from his mind. He isn’t that successful, and he officially declares it as a lost-cause. His only hope is that no one (read: Pidge) will question him if he happens to act weird.

Pidge chooses to watch _Bohemian Rhapsody_ , to which Matt promptly pouts at until Hunk points out that they watched _Legally Blonde_ for the seventh time last week. Matt, recognizing when he’s lost, quickly shuts up.

The movie part of the night goes by without a hitch. Everything starts winding down around three, when Hunk falls asleep. Matt follows shortly after, and then it’s just Pidge and Shiro sitting on the air mattress in the dark.

“How’re you holding up?”

Shiro shifts onto his side so he’s facing Pidge. He can’t see much without his glasses, but he doesn’t need to be able to see to know she’s staring at him, analyzing whether or not he’s telling the truth.

“Everything sucks.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

There’s a brief moment of silence. He hears Pidge moving onto her other side, and Shiro rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. There’s a prominent crack right about his head that he focuses on so he doesn’t lose his nerve when he says:

“Do you think I’m enough?”

“What?” Pidge asks, more of a hiss than a whisper. “What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“Well, you’re asking a stupid question,” Pidge mutters with a huff. “Why are you even asking me that?”

“Because seeing Emi got me thinking,” Shiro says, purposefully leaving out Keith.

“You’re more than enough, Shiro. It’s not your fault that your mom can’t see that.” She pauses for a moment. “Did she say something to you?”

“No,” Shiro says, snorting. “She was too busy pretending everything was just _fine_.”

“God, I hate that woman,” Pidge says darkly. She nudges Shiro with her elbow. “Hey. I meant what I said. Don’t let someone else dictate your self-worth.”

“Even someone I care about?”

“Especially not someone like that,” Pidge says. “If they care about you as much as you care about them, they’ll love you exactly the way you are. Don’t change, Shiro.”

“Pidge?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

Pidge scoffs. “You’re welcome, big guy. Now go to sleep.”

She hits him with a pillow. Shiro laughs, but it comes out a bit strangled. He wonders when a good time would be to tell Pidge that she’s _much_ stronger than she thinks she is, but promptly decides _now_ is not that time.

He doesn’t fall asleep, not for a while. He passes the hours staring at the ceiling, thinking of everything and nothing at the same time. Somehow, even though he tries not to, his mind keeps reminding him of Keith. Even now, Shiro swears he can feel Keith’s lips against his.

He releases a slow breath.

“You’re fucked now, Shirogane,” he mutters.

Somewhere up there, he’s sure there’s some kind of other-worldly being laughing at his fate. Like, oh, look. This kid’s life already is the worst, but let’s add some more shit to it and see where that goes. Which, honestly, is completely unfair. But Shiro’s pretty sure the big guy upstairs doesn’t give a damn about him and his inability to handle conflict and any mild form of stress.

He falls asleep thinking of a cliché, bearded old man on throne made of clouds, laughing as images of Shiro’s top ten embarrassing images play across a screen of water-droplets.

In the morning, he’s sitting at the Holt’s counter, eating cornflakes. Matt and Hunk are still knocked out. Otherwise, Shiro’s sure Hunk would have whipped up a seven dish breakfast. No one really knows how he became to be such a good cook, but none of them complain about it. Matt’s convinced that Hunk not becoming a chef would be a grave disservice to the world, and Shiro can’t say he disagrees. Hunk’s cooking is borderline godly.

Pidge’s drinking a cup of coffee that Shiro’s willing is more sugar than anything. The steam fogs up her glasses, and Shiro snickers at it, milk dribbling out of the corner of his mouth.

“Gross,” Pidge says, tossing a napkin at him. She’s smiling, though, so Shiro grins at her, mouth full of chewed-up cereal. “Hey.”

“Yeah?” Shiro asks, slurping up the rest of his milk. Pidge rolls her eyes at him before she sobers up, her eyebrows furrowing.

“Are you _positive_ everything’s okay?” she says. “Last night you were kinda…”

She trails off, but Shiro knows what she means.

“There’s just a lot of stuff going on right now,” he says, and he’s beyond glad that it isn’t a lie. “I guess I don’t know how to handle it.”

“You don’t have to take it on by yourself, you know,” Pidge says. “You have us, and you have your family. That’s what we’re all here for.”

Shiro nods slowly, scraping his spoon along the bottom of his bowl. There’s a lone cornflake floating in an itty-bitty puddle of milk, and he crushes it with his spoon.

“You’re going to be okay,” Pidge continues, and Shiro wishes he could agree. That he could say _yeah, I know_ , and mean it.

But he can’t, so he just plasters on a fake smile and hope Pidge doesn’t notice instead.


	8. Who I Am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can't believe i'm spending my spring break updating this fic again lol

“Whoa, who is _that_?” Shiro turns around to look at Matt, who’s unashamedly pointing at something over his shoulder.

Matt’s eyes are practically bugging out of their sockets, mouth dropped low enough that Pidge actually reaches up to close it. He scowls at her before he peers around Shiro at whoever has captured his interest.

Shiro almost doesn’t turn around. _Almost_ , because Matt has this beyond annoying habit of saying something like _wow, look at that_! and then laughing when Shiro turns around and it’s actually nothing.

But in the end, his curiosity is just too damn strong. So he looks, stares, really, and feels his teeth grind in his mouth. Which he’s instantly irritated about, but it’s not like his body really listens to him on any given day.

It’s Keith and Acxa, obviously, and he can see why Matt’s looking at Acxa like she’s some heaven-sent goddess. Shiro’s about ninety percent sure that skirts that short only exist in cliché high school movies, and yet there Acxa is, wearing a piece of dark denim that Shiro guesses covers everything it has to. _Barely_. She’s all neon blue hair and mile-long legs and a perfect, beautiful face.

She makes eye contact with Shiro just as she slides her hands into the back pockets of Keith’s pants. There’s nothing subtle about it, and Shiro recognizes a message when it’s being sent, believe it or not. He looks away, cheeks flushing, and grabs his bag from Michelle’s flatbed. Hunk shuts his door quietly, nervously glancing between Keith and Shiro as if he’s afraid Shiro will spontaneously combust or something. Which would be extremely disgusting, now that Shiro imagines it. Blood and guts all over Garrison High’s parking lot? Shiro would hate to be the guy that has to clean _that_ up.

He’s fine to stew in his own bitterness and jealousy for the rest of the day, but there’s really nothing for him to be jealous _about_. He doesn’t have any kind of claim on Keith. He doesn’t own him, and it’s not like they’re in any kind of relationship. Keith can do whatever the hell he wants with _whoever_ he wants, and Shiro doesn’t have a say in any of it.

Even so, he can’t stop the violent churning of his stomach when he thinks about it, or how he feels his blood run cold in his veins, as if he’s injected ice water into them.

 “Dunno,” Shiro mutters finally. He knows damn well, but it’s not like he’s about to explain. Not with the way Matt’s interested look has melted into something pitying, like he’s figured it out without Shiro giving him anything to work with. It wouldn’t be the first time, actually, but Shiro doesn’t want to talk about it.  Not now, not ever.

He waits for Pidge to say something, anything at all, but she’s strangely non-confrontational today. Maybe it’s because she’s occupied with her usual overpriced coffee, or maybe it’s because she just doesn’t give a shit about Keith now. She’s said her piece, and she’s content to let Shiro make whatever self-destructive choices he decides to make. He’s not sure if that’s really it, but it would make sense. He doesn’t think he’d be able to stop someone from doing something insanely stupid either. Especially not when that someone is _him_.

“…Hey, earth to Shirogane!”

Pidge snaps her fingers rapidly in front of his eyes.

“Huh?”

She sighs, rolling her eyes.

“I _said_ , we might hit up the mall later. You in?”

“No,” Shiro says, sourly. “Soccer practice remember?”

Matt wrinkles his nose.

“You still show up?”

“We’ve been over this,” Shiro says, pointing at him with narrowed eyes. “I need to beef up my resume.”

“Does it count if Iverson never lets you off the bench?”

“Shut _up_ , Matthew.”

Matt chortles as Hunk pats Shiro’s shoulder sympathetically. He’s an angel sent from up above, seriously. If there’s one thing Shiro knows, it’s that Jesse McCartney was singing about Hunk when he released “Beautiful Soul”.

“At least you made the team, right?” Hunk interjects, always having Shiro’s back. Bless him. “I’m sure that’s worth something. And if someone gets injured, there’s no way you _won’t_ be subbed in!”

“Exactly. Thank you, Hunk,” Shiro says, to which Hunk beams and the Holt’s roll their eyes in a synchronized fashion that’s honestly a little scary. “You guys are coming to the game on Saturday, right?”

“Wait, that’s _this_ weekend?” Matt says, stopping in his tracks. “Shit, man. Dad asked us to help him with some errands this weekend.”

Pidge groans overdramatically, throwing her head back and stomping her feet. She’ll never admit to being somewhat of a drama queen, but she definitely has her moments.

“I forgot about that.”

Shiro waves off the rushed apology Matt begins to give.

“No worries, it’s cool. You still in, Hunk?”

“Uh, Shiro? Don’t you remember the last time I went to a game?” Hunk says, wincing.

It takes Shiro a while, but he vaguely remembers nachos with extra cheese, projectile vomit, and Jenny from biology screaming up a storm while Hunk attempted to slide behind the bleachers and hide.

It hadn’t been pretty, not in the slightest, and Shiro’s pretty sure Jenny still looks at Hunk like he murdered her puppy.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Hunk grumbles, shuddering. “No thanks. I love you, man, but… _never again_.”

“Now I feel like shit,” Matt says with a frown. “I don’t think we’ve ever missed a game before.”

“It’s fine,” Shiro says, playfully cuffing Matt on the shoulder and grinning when he laughs. “There’ll be other ones.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we’ve got three minutes, tops, before the bell rings,” Pidge says, tapping pointedly on her watch.

Matt curses and books it, with the rest of the following along. Halfway through, Pidge begins taunting Shiro about his nearly non-existent stamina, and it takes everything he has inside of him not to grab her stupid coffee and chuck it into the nearest garbage bin.

Shiro and Matt make it to Montgomery’s calculus class with mere seconds to spare. Shiro drops himself into his seat, ignoring the irritated quirk of her brow. Beside him, Matt plasters a big grin on his face, shooting her finger guns when the bell rings.

“We’re on time, Lauren!” he says, smirking until Montgomery shoots him a glare that has him sinking down in his seat.

“I’m telling you,” Matt mutters out of the corner of his mouth as Montgomery pulls up the PowerPoint for chapter five. “That woman is the _devil_.”

Shiro almost laughs, but then remembers that Montgomery has crazy good hearing. He’s reminded of it when she calls on Matt for an answer when he’s clearly half-asleep. She looks far too gleeful when she assigns him lunch detention, and Shiro swears he does not gulp when she shoots _him_ a warning look.

The rest of the day is uneventful, really. Shiro goes to class, writes notes, has a mental breakdown over all the homework he has to do tonight, and then trudges off to practice. He’s not surprised to see the duct tape over his locker when he arrives, especially not when he hears the rest of the team begin to snicker as he peels each layer off. He doesn’t need to look to know it’s Lotor and his goonies, who act like they’re the bullies of every crappy high school movie Shiro’s ever watched.

“Shirogane! What the hell is this?” Iverson’s voice booms from inside his office. Shiro jumps, nearly pissing his pants when his coach suddenly rounds the corner, looming over Shiro somehow even though Shiro has a solid _four_ inches on him.

“What?” Shiro points at the locker. “It was like this when I came in.”

“Oh, right. I’m sure the duct tape fairy was _very_ busy today,” Iverson says with an eye roll that makes something inside Shiro shrivel up and die. “Nothing will get me to cancel practice. _Nothing_.”

“Sir, I wasn’t trying to—”

“Ten laps!”

“What, why? Coach, I swear, this wasn’t me!” Shiro says, near hysterical, but Iverson’s not having it.

“Twenty now! Move it, let’s go!” Iverson swats him with his clipboard, causing Shiro to let out this totally not embarrassing squeal.

He makes sure to shoot Lotor the dirtiest look he can as he stalks out of the locker room, but Lotor just flips his luscious hair and carries on talking about all the goals he’s going to make at this weekend’s game. Shiro’s not actually sure if that’s what he’s saying, but he wouldn’t put it past him. Stupid soccer captain and stupid hair and stupid completely _fake_ posh accent.

Fuck that guy. Really. Shiro can’t do anything but think about smearing mud in Lotor’s hair, and that’s probably why it’s so easy for a hand to reach out from the behind the bleachers when Shiro jogs past and drag him behind them.

Shiro swears up a storm. Is this really happening? Is he _really_ going to die right here behind Garrison High’s bleachers, on the hottest day of December?

It’s nearly seventy-five today. He gets that they’re living in the desert and all that, but _seriously_? No more. He can’t. Why did anyone ever think living here was a great idea? Why does Mother Nature hate Arizona so much and insist on roasting every living thing in it alive? That’s another reason he’s so set on NYU. It’d be nice to get the rumored four seasons he’s heard about. Anything’s better than summer year-round.

But, of course, he’s only going to make it that far if he lives past whatever is going on here. Shiro straightens himself out, pushing his shoulders back to look as confident and intimidating as possible. Ryou always says it’s unfair how he’s “built like a body builder, but looks like a goddamn kicked puppy.” As if Shiro can _control_ that. It’s not his fault his face looks the way it does.

“…Are you even listening?”

Shiro stops, mouth open, because _Keith_ is standing in front of him. With his arms crossed, fingers tapping in an agitated rhythm that has Shiro suddenly worried he’s going to die an untimely death all over again.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Come with me.”

“Right now?” Shiro squeaks. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the soccer field, where Iverson is blowing his whistle like there’s no tomorrow. “I’m kinda in the middle of practice.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Looked like you weren’t getting much done to me.”

Shiro scowls at that.

“Training is vital to every athlete’s performance.”

“Uh-huh,” Keith drawls. His fingers are doing that tapping thing again and Shiro can just _feel_ his anxiety spike. “Are you in or not?”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

Wow. That just answers all of his questions!

Keith must sense that Shiro’s about to say as much, because he smirks and crowds in close, batting his eyes coyly.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he offers, and a person’s voice should _not_ be able to sound so… _wow_.

“Ah, uh, okay,” Shiro manages to get out.

He’s not ready for the way Keith grabs his hand to drag him along. Shiro stumbles after him on unsteady feet, like a toddler just learning how to walk, and it’s downright embarrassing. But his knees feel like jelly, and _Keith Kogane_ is holding his hand. Somehow, there’s something about it that feels more intimate than kissing him. Like he can close his eyes and pretend that this _does_ mean something.

It’s a dangerous thought, one that Shiro shouldn’t even bother to be entertaining. But he’s somewhat of a hazard to himself, intent on creating his own special brand of hell. Keith’s just one aspect of that. One beautiful, horrible aspect that Shiro can’t forget, even though it’ll be so much easier in the long-run.

Settling behind Keith on his bike is natural by now, just like how putting his hands on Keith’s waist requires no thought. He doesn’t even hesitate before he does it. The helmet on his head feels suffocating, but at least it stops him from doing something totally ridiculous, like pressing his face into Keith’s shoulder.

Neither of them says a word as Keith takes them out of Garrison, past Cyprus and Hillside and anything remotely familiar. Hell, they even go past _Phoenix_. Shiro’s ashamed of how he thinks of Emi for one moment, wonders what she’s doing and how her picture-perfect family is holding up. It’s a wonder that he doesn’t feel guilty for wishing that it’ll all fall apart, for thinking that his mother doesn’t deserve anything remotely resembling happiness.

Shiro has completely lost track of time by the time Keith pulls the bike over and stops. He yanks his helmet off, squinting as the sun nails him right in the eye. His glasses are covered in a thin film of dirt from practice, so Shiro wipes them on his shirt before pushing them back onto the bridge of his nose.

“What is this place?” Shiro mutters, getting off the bike. Keith stays sitting, leaning over the handlebars.

The shack before them looks like it’s been abandoned for years. There’s a gray tarp pinned on a clothesline, flapping in the wind. Shiro eyes the pins still clipped to the line, as if someone will suddenly come back and pin up freshly laundered shirts and pants.

The glass in the windows has been broken in, and the screen door opens and closes with the force of the wind in a steady rhythm. It’s obvious that this was someone’s home, once, but Shiro doesn’t know why _they_ are here.

He jumps when he feels Keith sidle up beside him, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. They’re ripped to hell today, and he thinks idly and Ryou would probably appreciate them. Not that he wants to think of his twin brother and Keith in the same sentence, but, well, they have similar fashion tastes. How, Shiro doesn’t know.

“This is who I am,” Keith mutters, and it makes absolutely no sense. But then again, a lot of what makes up Keith _doesn’t_.

Mostly because Shiro doesn’t know him. He’d like to, honest to God he does, but it’s not like Keith’s exactly keen on letting him in any time soon.

Shiro faces the shack again. He rushes to follow Keith once he begins to walk towards the front door. Keith opens it gently, like he’s afraid it’ll fall apart right into his hands, and props it open with the doorstop behind it.

Shiro lingers in the doorway, staring at the dirt-covered floorboards and dust-covered surfaces. There’s a coffee table fashioned out of a wooden pallet, and a threadbare couch behind it with a sheet haphazardly slung over half of it. Keith drops himself down onto the couch, and a cloud of dust bursts around him, swirling in the air before settling back down.

“We used to live here. My parents and I.”

Oh, shit. Shiro feels his eyes widening, and his mind blanking as the words hit him.

“Keith…”

“We didn’t have a lot,” he says. “Mom was a cop, and dad used to be a firefighter. He got injured, though, and couldn’t work for a while. We had enough to get by, but most of the time it just _sucked_.”

Shiro swallows hard. Everything personal has been stripped from here, so there are empty hooks where pictures once hung, cleared counters that must’ve been cluttered with food and keys and unfinished homework.

It’s a lot to take in all at once. Almost _too_ much. If it’s this difficult for Shiro, he can’t imagine what Keith must be feeling.

“Nobody expected the accident, but I guess no one’s ever really prepared for that kind of shit,” Keith says, snorting bitterly. He kicks his feet up onto the coffee table and crosses his arms over his chest.

“I’m sorry, Keith.”

“People said that a lot at the funeral,” he continues on, staring hard at something in front of him. Shiro follows his gaze, but all he can see are the windows. And, beyond then, the endless desert. “ _I’m sorry, let me know if there’s anything I can do_. I fucking hated it. _I’m sorry_ wasn’t gonna fix anything. It wasn’t gonna bring them back.”

Shiro’s never put that much thought into the phrase, but now it clicks. He gets why Keith hates it so much, why saying it feels so empty, so hollow. There are usually good intentions behind the phrase, the implication that those two words are coming from the speaker’s heart, but that’s all they are.

Words, without any physical impact.

“Do you come here often?” Shiro asks, but he wants to punch himself right after. It doesn’t feel like something he should be bringing up.

“Yeah,” Keith answers, voice rough, and Shiro chews nervously at his lip. “It’s the only thing I have left. I wanted to stay here after they were gone, but I got shipped off to Sendak’s instead.”

“But Hillside’s nice,” Shiro offers feebly, finally stepping fully inside. He sits beside Keith on the couch even though it feels wrong, as if he’s invading Keith’s memories, making himself too comfortable in his past.

If Keith notices how stiff Shiro’s shoulders are, he doesn’t mention it.

“It’s nice,” Keith agrees. “But it isn’t _home_.”

Shiro sucks in a sharp breath. He gets it, the concept of home. For a while, he wasn’t sure what it meant. Being with Emi certainly never felt like it. He remembers this one time in kindergarten, when they were asked to draw their families and homes. Shiro had just drawn himself with Ryou. No sunshine in the corner of the page, no little square house with round windows and a chimney. When his teacher had asked him about it, he’d just said he didn’t feel like adding anything else. It was easier than telling her the truth.

It wasn’t like he could say that he wasn’t sure he had a home, that being with his mother and father felt nothing like how his classmates described it to be. That his house was just that: a house to live in. It was shelter in the most basic sense, and there would never be more to it than that.

“I didn’t think I was going to have a home,” Shiro starts slowly, and he tries not to lose his nerve when he feels the intensity of Keith’s eyes on him. “But then Aunt Mei and Grandpa took us in, and I think I’m finally starting to get it. I love them more than anything, honestly, but I think Garrison will forever be ruined for me.”

“I wish I could just leave,” Keith says, sinking into the cushions, frustration bleeding into his words. “Just get up and go, you know? It’s not like I have anything to stick around for.”

It stings, to hear that, to be forced to recognize upfront how lonely Keith is. It makes Shiro feel like shit, feel guilty somehow that he’s got something in Garrison, that he has some semblance of roots, but he wants to give it all up just to fulfill his own selfish desire of _leaving_.

“Where would you go?” Shiro asks, and he feels Keith shrug.

“Somewhere far away,” he answers, and it’s so honest that it takes Shiro’s breath away from a moment. “Somewhere where I can forget who I was here.”

“Is that why you, you know…” Shiro makes his vague gesture with his hands that makes his cheeks burn, but he relaxes when Keith snorts.

“Do stupid, reckless shit? Yeah, probably.”

Shiro frowns. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Probably thought it, though. Most people do,” Keith says, folding his arms behind his head. “Saw you earlier, by the way. This morning. You were with your friends, right?”

“Yeah,” Shiro says, mouth feeling bone dry.

“They seem nice,” Keith adds, before Shiro can ask about Acxa. “Must be cool, having people around.”

Shiro shifts awkwardly, deciding Acxa isn’t important at the moment.

“Don’t you have Lance?”

“Lance,” Keith echoes, shaking his head. “Nah. Maybe once, a long time ago. But I fucked that up.”

“Maybe not completely,” Shiro offers, ignoring the dubious look Keith shoots at him. “He’s the one who called me because he didn’t know where you were.”

Keith scowls, but he doesn’t say anything to refute it. Shiro silently decides that must be a good sign, that Keith is at least considering what he’s saying. So, _score_.

“We were best friends.”

There’s a faraway look on Keith’s face, but beneath that he looks like he’s in pain. It makes Shiro’s chest tighten, makes his lungs feel like they’re going to burst or something equally as painful. Shiro doesn’t know what to say, or even if speaking would help. He settles for staying quiet, for waiting to Keith to continue when he’s ready.

“Before my parents died. We met at the library. He took a book I wanted and I threw a fit.”

Shiro laughs before he can stop himself. He’s got this mental picture of a tiny Keith screaming his little head off, attracting the attention of nearly every other person around. It’s hilarious, frankly, and not too hard to think of.

“Sounds accurate. You’re kind of a brat, you know.”

“Hey,” Keith says warningly, but he nudges Shiro playfully. “His sister came over and made us talk it out, and somehow we realized we had more in common than we thought. We were hardly apart after that.”

“What changed?” Shiro asks, thinking of what Lance had said to him, how he’d practically told Shiro to stay away from Keith.

“I kinda lost my shit after the funeral,” Keith says quietly. “It was too much to handle. I didn’t want help, so I started self-medicating and I never stopped. Lance tried to get me to, but it was too late. Now we barely talk.”

Shiro thinks back to that fateful night at 7-Eleven, the same night he’d dropped Keith off home and saw Lance waiting outside.

“Do you remember when I dropped you off home?”

“I try not to,” Keith says dryly.

“Lance came up to me afterwards,” Shiro starts, unsure of how he should approach this. “I mean, at first he thought I was an Uber. But then I said who I was, and then he said this whole thing about ‘Shiro from 7-Eleven’.”

“Ah,” Keith murmurs. “So you’ve heard about that.”

“I didn’t realize it was a thing.”

Keith doesn’t answer for a while, and Shiro wonders if he’s somehow struck a nerve. But then Keith groans, and drags a hand through his hair. Shiro watches him, unable to do much else, his heart pounding in his chest as he waits for Keith to speak.

“It’s been a thing for a while,” Keith says. “But it doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t?” Shiro asks, his eyebrows shooting up into his hairline. In his humble opinion, he’s pretty sure that means a _whole fucking lot_. Shiro from 7-Eleven _is_ a thing. Keith talked about him, apparently with Lance. So, yeah. Big deal.

“Nah,” Keith says. “I’ve fucked with enough people.”

Shiro feels a lump form in his throat, one that he imagines swelling and swelling until it blocks his airway and chokes him to death. It’s a gruesome thought, but sometimes his brain gets on these little destructive tangents and there’s nothing he can do to stop them.

It’s that same self-destructive quality that has him saying:

“Does it ever mean anything to you?”

“It can’t,” Keith replies coolly, throwing his head back to glare at the ceiling. “I won’t let it go that far.”

“But don’t you think you deserve to have someone, I don’t know, care about you?”

“Who, like you?” Keith fires back, lightning quick, and Shiro actually does choke then.

On his own spit, that is. Because of _course_. God forbid he’s a dignified human being, and not some spastic, vague approximation of one. Honestly, it’s like even his own body has it out for him. And don’t even _get_ him started on his goddamn brain. That thing is downright _dangerous_.

“Not necessarily,” he rushes to say, holding his hands out defensively in case Keith decides to beat the shit out of him. “Someone better than _me,_ obviously.”

“Don’t put yourself down,” Keith says, narrowing his eyes, and Shiro’s almost too shocked to respond until his brain comes back online.

“It’s hard not to,” Shiro says, snorting. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m kind of a wreck most of the time.”

“Maybe,” Keith offers, and Shiro’s almost offended until he says, “but that’s what I like about you. Among other things.”

Shiro wants to question that, he really does, but then Keith’s fluidly jumping to his feet.

“We should head back,” he says, furrowing his eyebrows when Shiro doesn’t move. “What?”

“Nothing,” Shiro says, voice airy, and he quickly stands when Keith continues to give him a searching look.

Keith doesn’t say anything else, though, and the drive back to Garrison is punctuated by this oppressive silence that weighs heavily over Shiro’s shoulders. When Keith drops him off in front of Garrison High, he lingers awkwardly by the bike.

“Hey, Keith,” he says before he can talk himself out of it. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t expand on it, not sure if he can manage to say anything else without sounding like a total moron.

“Yeah,” Keith says, though, and he speeds off before Shiro can so much as blink.

The team’s just getting into the locker room when Shiro burts into the athletic wing, out of breath and still wondering what the _hell_ just happened between him and Keith.

“Shirogane!” Iverson booms, appearing out of nowhere once again. “Where the hell were you?”

“Uh,” Shiro starts intelligently, “behind the bleachers?”

“Son of a bitch! Shirogane, that’s it! You’re benched!”

“Uh, I’m already benched, sir,” Shiro pipes up meekly, just as he hears the guys begin to outright _cackle_ behind him.

“Well, then you’re on clean up for the rest of the season,” Iverson spits, face cherry red at his blunder. He storms into his office, the poor door trembling after he slams it shut.

Shiro changes out as quickly as possible, stuffing his things into his bag and high-tailing it out. The bike ride home feels shorter than usual, probably because Shiro spends most of it stuck in his own head, unable to think of anything but the conversation he had with Keith.

Aunt Mei’s still at work, so it’s just the Shirogane boys, left to fend for themselves.

Shiro shudders at the thought. It’s kind of embarrassing how dependent they all are on Aunt Mei, but he figures it’s better that she run the house than Grandpa Jin. Because wow, _yikes_.

Grandpa Jin is attempting to make ramen when Shiro walks into the kitchen, but basically tosses the wooden spoon in his hands down when he sees him. Shiro watches him storm past him, groaning when his grandfather jabs him roughly in the chest with his finger.

“Dinner’s on you tonight,” he says. Shiro frowns.

“I don’t know how to cook,” Shiro says, and Grandpa Jin shakes his head in disappointment.

“Eighteen years old, and you don’t know how to cook?”

“You’re seventy-two and _you_ don’t know how to cook either.”

Grandpa Jin narrows his eyes at Shiro until he ducks his head and apologizes.

Ten minutes later, Shiro’s trying to salvage the noodles Jin had somehow managed to burn. That’s of course when Ryou decides to come downstairs and grace them with his presence. He spends who knows how long poking fun at Shiro’s beyond abysmal ramen until Shiro wields the spoon like a spear and chases him out of the kitchen.

They end up running around the house until Aunt Mei comes home. She stands in the doorway, smiling gently until Shiro and Ryou stop in front of her, faces red and chests heaving, cheeks hurting from laughing.

“What?” Ryou asks her, but it lacks any of his usual bite. Aunt Mei smiles wider.

“It’s been a while since we’ve been this happy,” she says, reaching forward to cup their cheeks. “I missed this.”

She pulls them into a hug, even though they’re both sweaty and Shiro’s still holding the spoon. But none of it matters in that moment, because all he can think of is how grateful he is for her, for his brother and his grandfather.

Afterwards, Aunt Mei makes stir-fry using left over rice and roast chicken. Dinner feels like how it had before Emi had squirmed her way back into her lives. There’s, for example, one of Grandpa Jin’s seemingly endless conspiracy theories, this one now about how every person has an assigned FBI agent. When Ryou tries to shoot it down, Jin insists that there’s no other way the computer can show him an ad for heating pads after he just spent the previous day ordering one. That turns into Ryou and Jin arguing and Mei and Shiro trying not to laugh.

Emphasis on _trying_.

In short, everything almost feels normal. Lately, it’s been like they’ve been plagued by nothing but heartache after heartache. And even though deep down the events of the past few weeks still weigh heavily on his mind, Shiro feels like he can finally _breathe_.

And wow, isn’t _that_ a feeling.

After he helps Mei clean up, he heads upstairs to get started on the mountain of homework that awaits him. Even though he wants to cry himself to sleep after powering through all of it, there’s this feeling of lightness that surrounds him. It occurs to him all that this feeling probably won’t last for much longer, so Shiro clings to it with everything he has.

When he falls asleep that night easily, without any thoughts troubling his head, he considers today one of his first wins in a long list of losses.


	9. Someone to Me

It’s Saturday—one in the afternoon to be exact—and Shiro’s standing in front of his suspiciously _not_ defaced locker. He does a surreptitious once-over of the locker room, but it appears everyone is too busy prepping for their upcoming game to think about pranking him.

Releasing a heavy breath, Shiro opens his locker and grabs his uniform. He’s not nervous about the game, despite the fact they’re versing Central Phoenix today. They’ve been Garrison High’s biggest rivals since the start of time, even back when Aunt Mei went to Garrison. Every time they play against them, Aunt Mei goes on and on about Becca Spitz, a player from Central who apparently cheated in every game. Grandpa Jin insists Mei’s being dramatic, but Shiro’s sure there’s at least a drop of truth to it. Central Phoenix is _brutal_.

The last time they played against them, which was around the start of the season, Shiro had watched as they managed to body-check nearly every one of Garrison’s players. Central knows how to play dirty, and better yet, they know how to play dirty and not get caught.

Shiro suppresses a shiver as he pulls his jersey on. For once, being a benchwarmer doesn’t seem so bad.

“Why do you even show up?” Lotor asks, appearing out of quite literally nowhere. Shiro's proud of himself for not screaming himself hoarse. “You're not getting off the bench, Shirogane.”

Shiro swallows hard, focusing on nothing other than changing out. Lotor scoffs in disgust and slams his shoulder roughly against Shiro’s, causing him to lose his balance and knock over someone’s water bottle. Shiro rights it just as Nathan from calc glares at him and snatches it up. The meek smile Shiro shoots his way only makes his frown get deeper. Shiro bites back a groan and slams his locker shut, shuffling out to the hallway to join his teammates.

“Alright, you all know the drill,” Coach Iverson says, clipboard tucked under one arm. He’s squinting critically at them, as if he’s trying to figure out who’s going to disappoint him today.

Shiro immediately puts himself on top of that list. He’s definitely above Chris, one of the other benchwarmers on the team. Chris's selling point is that he knows how to kick the ball about half of the time. Shiro can’t even walk without tripping over his own feet  _ever_.

That’s probably why Chris looks like he’s in physical pain every time Shiro tries to make small-talk. In his defense, soccer’s pretty boring when you’re not out there in the action. He never really got the draw of watching _other people_ play sports. Grandpa Jin and Ryou watch football religiously, as if there’s a football god out there that’s going to punish them if they miss a game, but Shiro usually avoids the screaming and spilled soda at all costs.

Somehow, his mind brings up an image of a golden football resting on a throne made of clouds, and Shiro snorts at the thought before he can stop himself. If there is a football god, it would  _obviously_ look like that.

 Of course, that’s the exact reason he misses the tail end of Iverson’s absolutely _riveting_ speech.

 “…is that understood?” Iverson says in conclusion, and Shiro nods vigorously even though he has no idea what’s going on.

Iverson stares at him for a solid ten seconds, as if he’s totally aware that Shiro’s head is up in space. His gaze sweeps over the team before he releases a heavy, resigned sigh.

“Let’s go, move it!”

They jog out onto the field, with the starter players finding their respective spots and the rest of the team filling the bench. Shiro easily spots Aunt Mei, Grandpa Jin, and Ryou in the stands. They’re right in the front, just like always. It never seems to matter to them that Shiro never actually plays. It brings a smile to his face and causes him to wave wildly when Aunt Mei spots him. He stops instantly when Iverson shoots him a dirty look that has his ears warming with embarrassment.

Shiro watches the crowd as the referee whistles for the game to start. He’s not looking for anyone in particular, simply trying to pass the time until the game is over. He’s just reached the top row when he stops, breath caught in his throat, threatening to choke him.

Keith’s sitting by himself, legs stretched out on the seat in front of him. His arms are crossed over his chest. He’s too far away for Shiro to make out what kind of expression is on his face, but his body looks so stiff that Shiro’s convinced he’s in pain. Shiro swallows roughly, mind racing. Does Keith have friends on the team? Is that why he’s here?

Shiro spends so long agonizing over why Keith is here that he completely misses when Central manages to trip up Nathan from calc. Earlier in the season, he’d sustained a fracture in his left foot that left him out for about a month and a half. Clearly, he still hasn’t fully recovered. Nathan falls like he’s a tree and a lumberjack has just brutally cut him down. Iverson’s spewing profanities and gesticulating violently at the ref, who honestly looks like he might piss himself.

A hush falls over the crowd, followed by frantic murmuring. The referee’s shrill whistle cuts through the air while a medic rushes onto the field, pocking and prodding at Nathan. Judging from the constipated expression on Lotor’s face, Nathan’s out for the rest of the game.

Iverson’s swearing increases tenfold. Shiro’s heart leaps into his throat when he storms towards the bench, hands on his hips, as he glances between Shiro and Chris.

“Lord help me,” Iverson shouts, slamming his clipboard down onto the bench. “Shirogane, get out there.”

“What?” Shiro squeaks, pointing at himself. Chris looks just as shocked as Shiro feels. “Are you sure about that Coach?”

“Absolutely not,” Iverson says, which does _wonders_ for Shiro’s self-esteem. “Now get!

Chris’s jaw drops as Shiro scrambles up, standing awkwardly in front of Iverson until his coach screams at him to _get a move on, damn it!_

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Chris grumbles sourly, narrowing his eyes as Nathan is escorted to the bench.

“You fuck up,” Nathan hisses just as he passes Shiro, “and I’ll punch every goddamn tooth out of your mouth.”

Shiro does not shiver. No, not at all. It doesn’t matter that Nathan comes up to his neck on a good day, or that Shiro has at least fifty pounds on him. He’s seen the vicious way Nathan tears into their teammates during practice, and he is _not_ about to get all up in that. That, of course, being a quick and tragically untimely death.

Shiro jogs onto the field, watching as Aunt Mei begins jumping up in her seat while Grandpa Jin claps and Ryou slumps over, hiding his face between his knees. Shiro winces, but doesn’t blame his brother. Ryou had been the one helping him practice for tryouts freshman year, and the number of neighbors injured and windows broken had been absolutely astonishing.

And painful. But not the point.

The game goes by in a blur. Shiro doesn’t get the ball passed to him, but he manages to steal it away from one of the opposing team’s players. Lotor looks mildly impressed, and Shiro just about preens until he remembers that Lotor is an absolute asshole.

Shit hits the proverbial fan in the last few minutes of the game. Garrison High is scrambling, one measly point behind Central Phoenix. Lotor’s screaming, Coach is screaming, hell, everybody is screaming.

Shiro’s dripping in sweat, shaking like a goddamn leaf on a tree. Any flash of white and black has him moving faster than he ever has in his life. His foot connects solidly with the ball, and all he hears above the roar of blood rushing in his ears is a solid _whack!_

There’s silence, for a moment, and Shiro opens his eyes. He doesn’t remember closing them, but he quickly decides that’s not important. Because the ball is…going into the net?

There’s a buzz in his ear, like a bee has somehow wormed its way in there, and then the crowd bursts into screams. The scoreboard lights up. Central Phoenix four, Garrison High five.

Something slams into Shiro from behind, and it takes him an embarrassingly long minute to realize it’s his teammates. They’re patting him on the back, yelling in his face, thrusting their fists into the air.

“Thank fuck, Shirogane,” Shiro hears someone that sounds awfully like Iverson say from the sidelines.

Shiro whirls around to face the stands. Grandpa Jin and Aunt Mei are losing it, predictably, and even Ryou is clapping along with them. He looks further up to find Keith, but the spot he once occupied is gone.

Shiro’s expression falls, the face-splitting grin on his face fading in an instant. There’s a tightness in his chest, and he swipes sweat off the back of his neck, lungs burning as he desperately tries to get in more air. The adrenaline is still racing through his veins, and it’s enough to make him feel a little dizzy, like he’ll crash right then and there.

He doesn’t, though. He makes it to the locker room before anyone else, showers and changes out. Nathan actually _smiles_ at him before he’s wheeled off to the nurse’s office, and there’s something so insanely weird about it that Shiro almost forgets all about Keith.

 _Almost_ , because when Shiro turns the corner leading out of the athletic wing, Keith’s leaning against the wall. He’s out of it, head lolling to the side, muttering a string of words that don’t really sound like much of anything. Shiro recognizes the guy standing in front of Keith, kind of. He sees the words _powder room_ flashing in his mind, all black Sharpie and notebook paper. He sees neat white lines, edged perfectly apart by a credit card. He sees Keith hanging back, a boy draped over him, pressing insistently into him, and Keith _letting it happen_.

“Keith.”

His voice is shaking, just like the fist he’s got clenched at his side. Keith turns towards him, with unfocused eyes, and he just _looks_ at Shiro, but it feels like he’s looking through him.

Shiro forces himself forward, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum tiles under his feet. The dude in front of Keith straightens, shoulders back like he’s ready to pick a fight if he has to. It’s beyond intimidating, but Shiro gives himself a mental pep talk that mostly consists of _be nice and don’t piss this dude off_.

“Is everything okay here?” Shiro asks slowly, ignoring how the guy narrows his eyes at him like Shiro’s a moron.

“Peachy,” the guy spits, jerking his chin towards the end hall. “I think now’s the time you fuck right off, don’t you?”

“Uh,” Shiro blanks, and the guy snickers like he’s won. “No? Not really?”

The guy’s jaw drops, and Shiro recognizes that look. It’s the _oh my God, what is wrong with this kid_ look that Shiro is achingly familiar with.

“James,” Keith pipes up then, sounding so, so exhausted. “Go.”

The guy— _James_ , Shiro reminds himself—looks at Keith, then at Shiro, and back at Keith before rolling his eyes and storming off. The door at the end of the hallway slams shut behind him, leaving a circle of warm Arizona air behind.

“Keith?”

Shiro shuffles forward, gripping the strap of his duffle hard enough to hurt. Keith’s staring at the door, head tilted away from Shiro, but when he hears his voice he turns. And Shiro can’t look anywhere but at the thin line of blood that trips from Keith’s nostril over the curve of his lips.

Powder room, white lines. High, high, high.

It all flashes in Shiro’s mind like a neon sign outside of a barber shop. Somewhere, in the back of his head, he sees a blurb from an article he’d researched just for the hell of it in middle school.

 _Doctors list nosebleeds as one of the many physical effects of cocaine_.

“Keith?”

Keith grabs him by his shirt when Shiro’s close enough. It hurts, when the tight line of his collar digs into his skin. He feels himself gulp, but he’s proud of himself for not shaking.

When Keith kisses him, Shiro tastes the sharp tang of his blood. It’s metallic, and reminds him of the penny Ryou had dared him to lick when they’re were eleven. Shiro had spit out whatever saliva had accumulated in his mouth right after and powered through half a bottle of Gatorade until he tasted fruit punch and not metal.

But he doesn’t pull away from Keith. He hears Keith’s ragged breathing, feels the sting of his nails through his thin shirt, and he presses his hands against Keith’s flank. Keith breaks away from him, chest heaving, gripping him like he’s afraid Shiro will somehow slip through his fingers.

“Why?”

His voice is gritty, low. It scrapes its way down Shiro’s ear canal, vibrates against his ear drum, worms its way into his brain. Why. Why, why, why.

“I don’t know.”

Keith laughs bitterly, drags Shiro in. He doesn’t kiss him again, just rests their foreheads together, curls his fingers into the back of Shiro’s shirt. Shiro watches, waits, but Keith doesn’t speak for what feelings like a long, long time.

“Cocaine can give you nosebleeds,” Keith mutters against Shiro’s mouth, hands sliding down his shoulders to rest on his stomach. Shiro swallows hard when Keith glances up at him from beneath his lashes. “Did you know that?”

“Yes.”

“I get fucked up, I fuck around,” Keith says, and it’s so achingly familiar that it _hurts_ to listen to. "I meant it when I said that, you know."

“Why are you here?”

Shiro honest to God doesn’t know why he says it. It makes Keith pause, though, teeth grinding together harsh enough that Shiro can hear it, dark eyebrows furrowing like he can’t figure out what the right answer is supposed to be.

“Ryou,” Keith says flatly, and Shiro damn near chokes. “He said you had a game today.”

“I thought you two didn’t talk?”

“I never said we didn’t talk about _you_ ,” Keith corrects mildly, untangling his fingers from around Shiro’s shirt. He smooths it back down against Shiro’s shoulders, resting his hands lightly there when he’s done. “He said you were a benchwarmer. I can see why.”

Shiro frowns at that, unable to help himself, and Keith snorts at the probably immensely offended look on his face.

“Sports look good on a resume,” Shiro mutters, staring at his dirt-stained sneakers. “Most of my clubs are academic, but I thought I would make me seem well-rounded if I did at least one sport.”

Shiro doesn’t add that the soccer team had been the only sport who pitied him enough to let him get past tryouts. Keith doesn’t need to know that, right?

“You’re really serious about that NYU thing, huh?”

“Well, yeah,” Shiro says. “College is pretty much my only option.”

“Option for what?”

“Nobody stays in Garrison,” Shiro says instead of answering. It’s the truth, kind of. He loves his family, really, but Garrison’s fucked him over enough for one lifetime. NYU is his dream school. A good education and a fresh start. It’s practically perfect.

“I wanted to be a fighter pilot when I was a kid. Thought I was gonna end up in the Galaxy Garrison,” Keith adds, voice airy like he’s talking himself more than anything, and Shiro just _freezes._

Everyone knows the Galaxy Garrison, mostly because it’s the only thing Garrison, Arizona is known for. Each year they churn out the next generation of promising future astroexplorers, and anybody who’s ever gone through the Garrison has gone _somewhere_. Like NASA level _somewhere_.

“What happened?” Shiro asks, because he heard _it_. _Wanted_ , as in the past tense. As in something made Keith change his mind, made him scowl like he is right now.

“I grew up,” Keith says briskly, and it’s instantly clear that’s all Shiro’s getting out him for the moment. He steps back, presses his body flat against the wall and shoots Shiro a curious look. “What about you? You always wanted to be a doctor?”

“Kinda,” Shiro admits softly. “My aunt’s a nurse, and I’ve always admired her.”

“Cool,” Keith says simply. Shiro drags his foot against the floor, listens to the tiny squeaks that follow.

“Who was he?”

“Who?”

“James,” Shiro says, and the name tastes like lemon juice on his tongue. He feels himself scowling and rushes to get the expression off of his face.

“Nobody.”

“It didn’t seem like that.”

“What, are you jealous?” Keith spits then, like a snake spewing venom, and Shiro swallows hard.

“No.”

“You couldn’t lie to save your fucking life, Shirogane,” Keith says, partly irritated and partly amused. It’s a strange combination, one that has Shiro ducking his head to avoid the complicated expression on Keith’s face.

“Do you want him?”

“No.” The answer is lightning quick, so fast that Shiro swears he’s somehow imagined it.

There’s something brewing in his gut then, and every single one of his nerves feels like they’re on fire. But he pushes on, because there are times Shiro can’t recognize his limits.

This happens to be one of those times.

“Do you want _me_?”

Keith’s looking at him like he’s an idiot, like Shiro should _know_ , but damn it, he doesn’t. He doesn’t know a goddamn thing about this, about _Keith_ , and it fucking kills him.

“What the fuck?”

“Say it.” He doesn’t know where this burst of confidence is coming from, or why he’s so angry that he’s tearing up. Ready to blow like a ticking time bomb, taking in deep, heavy breaths that somehow manages to not feel like enough. “Say it, Keith.”

Keith narrows his eyes. “It won’t change anything.”

“I know,” Shiro says, when he means _I don’t care_.

“Yes,” Keith says. He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t need to.

 _Yes. I want you_.

It’s crystal clear, and Shiro hears it. Repeats it to himself, over and over, until he’s sure he’s going to get sick of it.

There’s the clamor of the team behind them then, the slamming of lockers and boisterous laughter. Shiro steps back until there’s a good foot between himself and Keith. Keith looks all sobered up now, glaring at Shiro like he’s just asked him to do something absolutely _unthinkable_.

“Are you going to remember that?” Shiro asks.

_When you’re with them, are you going to remember me?_

Keith doesn’t say anything. Shiro nods to himself and begins to walk away. He doesn’t stop until he’s outside, until the sun is beating down on him, until he’s breathing in air so dry that it hurts, almost, like drinking water with a sore throat.

He looks over his shoulder, unsurprised that Keith is gone.

 

 

 

 

Everything goes back to normal on Monday. Shiro’s no longer the soccer star who pulled through in the last second. His locker’s got crude notes taped onto it when he walks into the locker room for practice, and something inside of his just _snaps_.

He storms over to where Lotor is sitting on the bench, fucking around with his goonies. Shiro grabs him by the shoulder, forces him to face him.

“What is your problem?” he hisses through clenched teeth, satisfied by the way confusion flitters across Lotor’s face. “Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

Lotor recovers quickly enough, brushing Shiro’s hand aside and standing.

“Are you out of your mind, Shirogane?” Lotor says, shaking his head with a laugh. “You score one goal and think you’re hot shit now, huh?”

“No.” Shiro says, but his voice wavers and someone begins to snicker.

“Aw no,” Nathan croons, draping a heavy arm around Shiro’s shoulder. “Is the wittle baby gonna cry?”

The rest of the guys cackle like Nathan’s said the funniest joke ever. Humiliation blooms in Shiro’s gut. He shoves Nathan off, ignoring the steady stream of curses he gets for it, and storms out of the locker room.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, just knows that he has to _go_. He passes by a trash can on his way to his bike, and for a moment he just stops and stares at it.

It’s easy to shove his duffle bag into the trash, to grab his bike and pedal until his thighs burn, until Cyprus turns into Hillside, until Keith’s house looms over him. It’s easy to punch in the code, to step through the gate, to make his way inside and upstairs.

There’s nothing easy about standing in Keith’s doorway. The door’s open, and Keith’s got his back to Shiro. He glances up and their eyes meet in the mirror hung above Keith’s desk.

They don’t say anything, for a while. They sit in silence, with Keith doing his homework and Shiro glaring at the wall. He doesn’t realize it’s dark until Keith flicks off his desk lamp and the streetlights cast shadows on one of Keith’s walls.

“Get up.”

Shiro stands up. He can’t see Keith, especially not with his glasses shoved into the bottom of his backpack, but he can hear him moving around. He senses when Keith’s in front of him, when they’re sharing the same air, and Shiro focuses his gaze on the outline of the top of Keith’s head.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

His voice cracks on every other word. He can’t speak louder than a whisper, and he can’t do anything but hope Keith heard him.

“Do what?”

“Anything. Everything. I don’t know.”

His mind’s a mess, a blur of thoughts and feelings that don’t make any sense. He’s confused down to his core, and it’s like there’s no other tangible feeling he can put his finger on. His head’s pounding, his vision’s swimming, and then Keith’s grabbing his hand and linking their fingers together.

“Walk with me.”

“It’s late.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Keith tugs him along and Shiro just _goes_. He stumbles along on unsteady feet, letting Keith navigate. They make it outside, past the ornate front door and wrought-iron gate, down the hill, leaving behind an endless line of manicured lawns and mansions.

They walk until there’s nothing but a long stretch of road, one that’ll eventually merge onto the highway. Keith jumps up onto the silver railing, walking along the edge of it steadily. Even so, Shiro’s heart drops down into his stomach.

“You’re gonna fall.”

He can’t help but to glance over the side, down the side of the massive cliff the road’s been carved into. Keith ignores him, still walking precariously along, and Shiro represses a groan and follows after him.

“What happened?” Keith finally says.

“The team hates me.”

“Boo-hoo. So fucking what?” Keith says, voice acidic, and Shiro flinches at his tone. “Do they mean anything to you?”

Shiro takes a minute to think about it. It’s not like he’s friends with any of them. Sure, they have some classes together, but Shiro doesn’t interact with any of them outside of the locker room.

“No.”

“Then why do you care?”

“It’s hard not to,” Shiro says.

“That’s your problem,” Keith says, walking backwards on the railing now, and Shiro really _is_ going to have a heart attack before this night is over. “Stop giving a fuck.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Shiro mutters, and Keith arches an eyebrow coolly.

“Do explain, Shirogane,” he says testily, and Shiro huffs out a heavy breath.

“Nothing fazes you,” he begins, and jumps when Keith begins to downright _cackle_.

“Everything fazes me,” Keith says, pointing at himself. “That’s why I’m fucked.”

Shiro stops, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. Keith rocks up onto his tiptoes on the railing, arms spreadeagle. He tilts his head back, staring up at the sky, and Shiro’s eyes zero in on the sharp curve of his jaw.

“Life sucks.”

“It usually does,” Keith grumbles, finally jumping off the railing. “That’s how it is.”

“I wish it wasn’t.”

“It usually doesn’t matter what you wish,” Keith points out, glancing at Shiro over his shoulder.

 “Where are we going, exactly?”

“Everywhere, nowhere,” Keith says, a teasing lilt to his voice.

And Shiro’s okay with that, surprisingly, and maybe it’s the comfortable feeling settling in his bones that prompts him to say:

“Why’d you give up on being a pilot?”

It’s the wrong time to ask it, probably, but with Keith, there isn’t ever really a _good_ time. The question gets Keith to stop, and Shiro keeps walking until they’re shoulder to shoulder. They stand there, right on the side of the street, cars speeding by, the wind rustling their hair.

“I told you why.”

“Not really.”

They’re at a standstill. Shiro recognizes it at once, and yet he can’t help but to push. He circles around Keith so he’s got nowhere to look but at _him_ , cutting off any escape routes. Keith looks like he wants to rip him apart for it, but he stays still.

“I realized it was stupid. That what you want to hear, Shiro?”

“It wasn’t stupid,” Shiro says, voice thick with an emotion he can’t place. “It _isn’t_ stupid.”

“Okay,” Keith says flatly, probably to end the conversation. He steps around Shiro and shoves his hands into his pocket. “So what?”

“Why do you think you’re not worth it?”

“Jesus fuck, Shirogane,” Keith whirls around, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “I was told that, okay? Sendak told me I’d never amount to anything and he was fucking _right_.”

He’s not yelling, not even a little, but Shiro feels the words roaring in his ears. He cringes, takes half a step back, and Keith crosses his arms over his chest and gives him a cool look.

“I’m fine with not being someone. I’ve accepted it. Life fucking blows sometimes and I _get_ it.”

“He was wrong.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I _do_.” Shiro swallows past the lump in his throat, past the nerves twisting tight in his gut, brushes his sweaty palms against his pants and forces himself to just _go_. “You’re someone, Keith. You’re…you’re someone to _me_.”

Keith clenches his fists, grinds his teeth like he’s about to blow up on Shiro, and Shiro finds himself preparing for it. Seconds begin to tick by, and Keith does nothing but stand there.

“You’re an idiot,” he says, quietly, and Shiro exhales loudly.

“I know.”

“Good,” Keith says crisply, and then he’s walking so fast that Shiro has to jog to catch up to him.

 

 

 

 

It’s past three in the morning when Shiro gets home. He stows his bike by its usual spot by the garage and keeps his footsteps as light as he can as he crosses the porch. The door is unlocked when he tries it, and dread washes over him in an instant.

He pokes his head in, ready for Aunt Mei to tear him a new one, but it’s not her, or even Grandpa Jin, who greet him. It’s Ryou, laying on the couch, remote on his belly, watching a movie. Shiro glances as the screen as he shuffles into the living room. Captain America. The first one. A true classic.

Shiro almost gets lost in watching Chris Evans run across the screen like every person’s living, breathing wet dream to realize that Ryou’s looking expectantly at him.

“What?”

“You’re late,” Ryou says, tapping at his wrist. It’s a useless gesture, since he doesn’t have a watch on. “Care to share your whereabouts with the class?”

“I’m going to bed.”

“I covered for you,” Ryou shouts just as Shiro turns towards the stairs.

He rushes back to clamp a hand over his brother’s mouth, ears straining to hear if Aunt Mei has stirred. The house is silent, and Shiro lets out a relieved breath. Ryou licks his palm, and Shiro scowls and wipes the moisture off on the back of the couch.

“Why are _you_ awake?”

“I was waiting for my dear brother, my beloved twin,” Ryou declares dramatically.

Shiro rolls his eyes and jumps over the couch, settling into the empty space by Ryou’s legs.

“I was with Keith.”

“Ah,” Ryou drawls, smirking. “Had fun?”

“You invited him to my game?”

“Not really,” Ryou says, holding up a finger. “I mentioned you had one, and that it would be a shame if he missed it.”

“So…you invited him.”

“Semantics.” Ryou waves him off. “I saw your duffle bag in the trash, by the way. I fished it out.”

“How?”

“Not many people have a Jurassic Park duffle bag,” Ryou points out. “How the hell did you even find one?”

“It’s a quality franchise,” Shiro says, his automatic response whenever someone attempts to shit on Jurassic Park. He doesn’t understand how some people hate it. Who hates _dinosaurs_?!

“Right, whatever,” Ryou says, flapping his hand again. He digs his toes into Shiro’s thigh. “What happened?”

“They hate me.”

“They don’t hate you.”

“They literally paste crap on my locker every practice. I’d say they hate me.”

“Well, fuck them,” Ryou says. “Do you even _need_ soccer, Takashi? No offense, but you fucking _suck_.”

“I scored a goal.”

“Once. And by the looks of it, it wasn’t intentional.”

Shiro doesn’t pout at that. Really.

“It’ll look good on my application.”

“But you _hate_ it,” Ryou presses. “What’s the point if it doesn’t make you happy?”

“I don’t know,” Shiro finally concedes, because the truth is there _isn’t_ a point.

There aren’t many times in his life where Ryou is right, but apparently three in the morning is when he’s less likely to be grumpy and willing to give actually helpful advice. Shiro presses his back into the cushion behind him, slouching down and resting his hands in his lap. Ryou nudges him with his toes again.

“Takashi?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Shiro asks, facing him, and Ryou shrugs, eyes darting back to the television before their gazes can meet.

“Dunno. Just asking.”

A beat of silence passes between them. Ryou plays with the remote, flipping it end over end, and Shiro watches him until he hears his brother clear his throat.

“Hey, Takashi.”

Shiro turns his head to show he’s listening.

“Don’t forget to put yourself first, okay?”

It comes out of nowhere, and Shiro blinks rapidly at it, trying to figure it out. Ryou’s attention is fully back on the movie, and Shiro finds himself nodding.

“Okay,” he says, watching as his brother’s lips quirk into a smile.


	10. This Is Not Enough

Shiro’s curled up on a bean bag chair in the Holt’s basement, watching yet another one of Matt’s seemingly endless romance movies. It’s probably only been an hour and half, maybe more, but Shiro _swears_ that it’s been going on for days.

They’re reaching the end, though, and the only reason Shiro can figure that out is because the main lead has suddenly leapt up from his couch, ready to run to his love. That’s what Matt says, anyway, which gets him shushed by Pidge and assaulted with popcorn by Hunk.

Shiro bites back a smile and focuses his attention back on the film. The lead’s running now (good call, Matt), and it’s pouring rain. The whole thing is artfully dramatic, with the music and all, and Shiro recognizes the exact moment the lead says _fuck it_ and goes for what he wants.

What he wants, of course, is his love interest, the woman he’s spent the last two hours pining over. He pounds on her door with his fists, she opens it, and they embrace in a kiss so passionate that Pidge begins gagging somewhere behind Shiro.

It’s terribly cliché, but Matt has literal heart eyes at the moment. Shiro just doesn’t have the heart to say that he thought the movie was kind of shitty, an overplayed rom-com that made his teeth hurt from all the cloying _sweetness_.

“I wish I had guts like that,” Matt sighs dreamily, sinking down in his seat until his legs press uncomfortably against Shiro’s back. He grins toothily at the dirty glare Shiro shoots him over his shoulder. “He just _went_ for it, y’know? And then he got the girl.”

“And they lived happily ever after,” Pidge interjects, snagging a handful of Twizzlers from the bag Hunk has nestled protectively between his side and a pillow. She gets a whine, which she waves off. “Matt, we’ve seen this movie a hundred times.”

“Have not,” Matt says instantly, but it’s obvious he knows Pidge is right. “Man. This shit gets me every time.”

He pretends to wipe a tear from his eye, which makes Hunk snort soda out from his nostrils. Pidge swears and goes off to search for napkins, and Shiro busies himself with watching the credits roll.

He kinda agrees with Matt, about the whole “getting the girl” thing. If life was actually like a rom-com, maybe Shiro would be able to run off into the sunset with Keith. Or something equally as cheesy.

That gets him thinking, then, what it would be like to just say _fuck it_ and go for it. It seems terrifying, like something that he can only dream of doing, but Shiro feels something bubbling inside of him. That feeling, the feeling that he’s approaching some really dangerous territory, keeps building and building until he’s suddenly on his feet.

He doesn’t offer an explanation as he rushes upstairs and past Pidge, who’s got an entire roll of paper towel in her hands. She shouts after him, but Shiro’s running on autopilot.

_Fuck it. Fuck it!_

He’s grinning like a maniac, pedaling hard, the wind rippling his shirt. He feels like he can’t breathe, like he’s not taking in nearly enough air, and by the time he gets to Keith’s, he’s winded.

He punches in the code for the gate and bursts through the front door like he’s on fire. He makes his way upstairs and down the hall, but it’s when he’s in front of Keith’s door that he finally _stops_.

“What the hell am I doing?” he whispers to himself, pressing a hand over his racing heart.

Of course, that’s the exact moment the door opens. Keith’s drinking out of a water bottle, and he nearly drops it when he sees Shiro standing in front of him, panting like he’s just run a goddamn marathon. Which, honestly, is exactly what he feels like.

“What are you doing here?”

“I, uh—” _Now’s your chance, Shirogane. You just have to go for it._

Shiro wants to, wants to just fucking _kiss_ Keith like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. It wouldn’t be the first time, but it would mean so much more than every time before this. He’s shaking like a leaf on a tree, and Keith’s looking at him like he’s crazy. Hell, maybe he is.

And just like that, Shiro loses his nerve. It’s not new or surprising in any way, but it’s no less disappointing.

“I forgot my calculator,” he finally manages to croak out.

Keith hums and disappears into his room. He hands over Shiro’s treasured graphing calculator, which he holds onto hard enough to hurt. The plastic is unforgiving in his palm, but the pain of it digging into his skin gives him something to focus on other than the absolute train-wreck unfolding before his very eyes.

“That it?” Keith asks. He’s got this look on his face, like he knows exactly why Shiro is here, and that makes him want to vomit. Not here, obviously, because Keith’s polished, heated marble tiles probably deserve better than that.

“No. Sorry. I just—forget it. G’night.”

He’s mumbling, tripping over the words, and he can feel Keith _staring_.

“Okay,” Keith finally says, slow like he doesn’t believe a goddamn thing Shiro’s saying. Which is fair. “Goodnight, Shiro.”

The door’s closing with a soft click, and Shiro drags his fingers through his sweaty hair and curses himself. His ears are burning with shame, and his skin is itchy, like his body is trying to turn itself inside out.

He doesn’t go home, or back to the Holt’s. He bikes over to the Lake Herold. It’s a family favorite of the Shirogane’s. Aunt Mei and Grandpa Jin have been taking him and Ryou there every summer since they came to Garrison. They always have a barbeque, and sometimes Grandpa Jin brings the tent and they camp out and watch the stars.

Shiro doesn’t really have a place where he goes to calm down, but if he had to choose one, Lake Herold would be it. Hardly anyone ever comes here, so it’s safe territory. Tonight, there’s a duck resting near the shore, quacking at intervals.

“Sorry bud,” Shiro murmurs when it begins tottering towards him. “I don’t have anything to give you.”

It’s probably his own paranoia, but the duck gives him a look that looks strangely judgmental before it waddles off.

Shiro settles himself down on the sand, instantly regretting it once it gets the seat of his pants wet. He drags his legs to his chest and digs his chin into his kneecaps. There’s a full moon tonight, and the sky’s so clear that it looks like there aren’t any stars out. But if he squints, Shiro can faintly make out a dim twinkle or two.

It wouldn’t be a stretch to say he hates himself at the moment. He wishes he was more assertive, that he could just go for things when he wants them, but he _can’t_. He’s just not wired that way, and it fucking _sucks_.

Keith deserves better than that. He deserves someone who knows what they want and how to get it, someone who’s sure of themselves and isn’t always held back by their own crushing self-doubt.

Someone who isn’t _Shiro_.

 

 

 

 

 

Shiro’s having this really fucking awesome dream, something about dragons and swords and whatnot, when his eyes suddenly snap open. He’s pissed about it for a solid ten seconds until he realizes his mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton. He smacks his lips together and rubs the heel of his palm into his eyes. He always wakes up in the middle of the night, whether if it’s to pee or get water, and by now he figures he should expect it. But somehow it manages to surprise the hell out of him every time.

He’s about to roll over and sleep the thirst off when his phone lights up on his nightstand. He wiggles his way across his bed, knocking a stray pillow off to the ground. By the time he manages to grab his beloved Nokia, the light dims and his room goes dark.

Shiro flips it open, squinting at the sudden influx of artificial blue light. It burns, and he’s absolutely positive he’s not being dramatic about it. He squints at the blurry numbers, too lazy to rummage around the nightstand for his glasses.

_(1)Missed Call: Keith_

Shiro jumps right up at the words, once he’s able to comprehend them. He’s still staring at the screen when another phone call comes in. Shiro accepts the call before he can think, pressing his phone against his ear.

There’s the sound of a hundred voices blending together in the background. It sounds muffled, like Keith has his hand cupped around his phone, shielding Shiro from wherever he is.

Shiro rolls flat onto his back, twists his neck to peer at the alarm clock on his bedside. 11:23 blinks back at him, in bright red numbers. He scrubs a hand down the side of his face, clears his throat and licks his dry lips.

“Keith?”

“Don’t talk,” Keith responds, voice sharp, and there’s something about it that wakes Shiro right up.

“Okay,” he says, until he remembers Keith’s earlier order.

He can hear Keith breathing, now. It’s steady, even, so much that Shiro can almost fool himself into thinking that nothing is wrong. But it’s almost midnight, and Keith _is calling him_.

So he sits up, presses his back flat against his headboard, and picks at a loose thread on his pajama pants. He feels this pressure on his chest, something that has him laying a hand flat over his heart, just to make sure he’s not going into sudden cardiac arrest or something equally as detrimental.

He isn’t, thankfully, but the pressure won’t leave. It alleviates somewhat when he picks up on Keith shuffling around. He imagines him pressed between too many bodies—probably too many to count—tucked away in a corner for some semblance of privacy.

“He left.”

“Who?” Shiro asks. It feels weird to hear Keith speak now, after all the silence that’s passed between them.

“Sendak.”

“Your uncle?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, softly, and Shiro swallows hard, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Keith, where are you?”

“Dunno. Some business dinner. It’s real classy. You know, a suit and tie kind of deal.”

Shiro doesn’t know, really, but he’s watched enough television to piece it together. He’s imaging a ballroom for some reason, something straight from _Beauty and the Beast_. He tells Keith so, which makes him snort out a laugh.

“I’ve never seen it,” Keith says once he’s calmed down, and Shiro’s jaw drops.

“Never? Not even once?”

“Nah. I never really got the appeal of Disney.”

“There’s nothing to get,” Shiro mutters, affronted, and he can practically hear Keith rolling his eyes. “Disney movies are _classic_. Practically essential for a normal childhood.”

“I think we’ve established I’m not normal,” Keith says, but there isn’t any malice in his voice.

Shiro winces all the same.

“Well, I’m only _kinda_ normal and I’ve seen them. A hundred times at least.”

“Cute,” Keith says, and it’s ridiculous how quickly Shiro feels his ears warm up.

“You’d be Belle, by the way,” Shiro says before he can stop himself. He wants to punch himself for it, but then Keith’s laughing again, and it sounds so honest and genuine that it takes Shiro’s breath away.

“Why, ‘cause I’m pretty?” It’s clear that Keith’s making fun of him, but Shiro doesn’t let it deter him.

“Yeah,” he admits, and he tries to ignore the lump that sits in his throat when he adds, “but she was more than that. She was brave, independent. And she brought out the best in Beast.”

“That doesn’t sound anything like me, Shiro.”

“You’re wrong about that.”

“Right,” Keith concedes, and there’s a beat of silence that makes Shiro’s heart begin to pump just _that_ much faster. “Whatever you say.”

“Your uncle, uh, where’d he go?” It feels like something he shouldn’t be asking, but there’s no way to take the words back. He waits impatiently for Keith’s answer, fidgeting on his bed, chewing at his lip.

“Away with some pretty blond. Someone from work I guess.”

“I could bail you out. If you wanted.”

“Shiro, it’s midnight,” Keith says, sounding exasperated.

“Yeah, but—”

“It’s fine.”

“You’re just saying that.”

Keith doesn’t immediately argue with him on that, so Shiro counts it as a win. He drums his fingers on his legs, debating, but he doesn’t really take that long. It’s embarrassing, how quickly he’d drop everything even if just to get a _glimpse_ of Keith.

“Text me the address.”

“You’re an idiot,” Keith mutters, resigned, but when Shiro hangs up the phone, there’s an address displayed in his screen, in all it’s black and white glory.

He changes into jeans a tee-shirt, barely remembering to grab a hoodie. While Garrison is hot as hell during the day, it’s practically freezing at night.

Sneaking out is no less nerve-wracking than before, but this time he makes it out without any incident. He forgoes his bike, choosing to take Aunt Mei’s Sentra. He’ll get the grounding of a lifetime if she ever finds out (which, knowing his luck, she definitely _will_ ), but somehow the threat of punishment isn’t enough to squash the giddy feeling bubbling in his chest.

“Snap out of it, Shirogane,” he tells himself.

He doesn’t, but at least he’s not smiling like an idiot to himself in the car. He’s never heard of the place Keith texted him before, and when he pulls up behind a line of Benz’s and Lambo’s, he figures out why.

It’s easy to spot Keith. He’s standing by the door, arms crossed over his chest, wearing ripped jeans and a leather jacket. He looks out of place, like he doesn’t belong one bit, and for the first time, Shiro thinks that they aren’t that different.

“Hey,” Shiro calls out as he rolls down the window. Keith looks over at him, raising a brow before he saunters over to the car, leaning down into the window.

“You’re here.”

“I said I was gonna come, didn’t it?” Shiro says.

Keith scoffs. “Yeah. You did.”

He opens the door and drops himself down into the seat, kicking his feet up onto the dashboard.

“Where are you taking me, Shirogane?” Keith murmurs, leaning an elbow on the door and giving Shiro a curious look.

It shouldn’t make Shiro’s stomach curl in on itself, shouldn’t make the hair on the back of his neck stand up on end.

“Where do you want to go?”

Keith gives him a devilish smirk.

“Drive.”

And so Shiro does, hands gripping tight around the steering wheel. He turns diligently, follows the rules of the road even when he catches Keith shifting restlessly in his peripherals. When Keith tells him to stop, Shiro presses the brakes, albeit hesitantly, and points shakily at the building looming above them.

“What is that?”

“C’mon, Shirogane,” Keith says, already unbuckling himself and hopping out. He leans down into the open door, still smirking that absolutely _infuriating_ smirk. “We’re gonna salvage this night.”

Shiro gets out, swinging the keys nervously around his finger. He’s unprepared for the valet that approaches him, holding out his hand expectantly. He jumps when Keith plucks the keys from his finger and tosses them carelessly into the valet’s hand.

Keith intertwines their fingers, firmly tugging Shiro along. Which, obviously, brings them closer and closer to the building before them.

The place looks like it was on the verge of falling apart, and Shiro’s honestly surprised it isn’t condemned. Everyone he looks, there’s a flash of bare skin, of neon lights and cigarette smoke, and Shiro unconsciously feels himself digging his heels in.

But Keith’s strong. Obviously, because, you know, _boxing_. He’s dragged along like he’s a child, and Shiro really, really is trying not to piss himself.

“Are we even old enough to get in?” Shiro asks, because he’s not an _idiot_.

Well, granted, he has his moments of utter stupidity, but this is _not_ one of them. He knows what clubs are, and he knows that clubs tend to be for those who are _legally able_ to be inside. Last he checked, eighteen-year-old’s can’t drink. Which clearly hasn’t ever stopped anybody before, but Shiro has morals. Which he likes to stick to, thank you very much.

“Also, can we talk about that building? Because I really think we should. It’s going to fall apart, Keith, and I’m telling you that you do _not_ want to be inside if it does. I mean, I guess you could file a pretty hefty lawsuit but—”

“Shiro?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Shut up.”

He does. Reluctantly, but he does it. Keith should be proud of him for that, because he feels like he’s six seconds away from a panic attack.

“Relax,” Keith says, tugging Shiro close. He stumbles, but it gets them chest to chest, and like this Shiro can see the way Keith’s eyes seem to light up. Red from a nearby neon side makes his face glow in a way that faces really shouldn’t, and Shiro presses his lips together tightly before he can do something moronic, like write corny poetry about the angles of Keith’s face.

Keith drags them past the line, ignoring the irritated shouts that follow them. Shiro mouths apologies over his shoulder, but he doubts anybody’s really paying attention to him. They stop at the front, in front of an iron door that looks like something out a crime scene, with the yellow caution tape plastered on the front.

“That’s not real, is it?” Shiro asks, pointing at the door, and Keith rolls his eyes and smacks his hand down.

“Keith!”

Shiro turns, where there’s a man standing in front of the door. He doesn’t look that intimidating at first, but then Shiro spies something that looks suspiciously like a gun strapped to his belt.

“Hey, Kinkade,” Keith says, walking towards him even as Shiro drags his feet behind him. “How’s it going?”

“Same shit as always,” the dude says, before he jerks his chin towards Shiro. “What’s with your boy?”

Shiro frowns slightly at that. He’s sure that he looks nervous as hell, but there’s not a whole lot he can do about that.

“First time. He’s a little jumpy,” Keith snorts, while Kinkade gives Shiro this pitying look that makes him _almost_ pout. “You gonna let us in?”

“You too good for a line, Kogane?” Kinkade says, but he pushes open the door for them anyway. “Hey, you.”

Shiro freezes when Kinkade grabs his arm and pulls him back. Keith raises his eyebrows, but turns on his heel and disappears inside without saying a word.

“I, um—”

“Take care of him. Got it?” Kinkade says, and _wow_ , that sure as hell sounds like a threat.

“Yes sir, no problem,” Shiro says, fumbling like a dumbass.

Kinkade smiles and shoves him inside. Shiro releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and tries to avoid looking at the amused grin on Keith’s face.

“Smooth,” Keith tells him.

“Shut up,” Shiro bites out, weakly.

Keith grabs his hand again and leads him further into the club. It’s warm inside, and Shiro’s already feeling a little sticky around the collar. It would’ve been a good idea to ditch his hoodie, but he didn’t really expect that Keith would drag him into a fucking _club_.

The bodies around them begin to melt into a sea of shapes that makes Shiro’s head hurt trying to follow. Everyone movies fluidly, rolling in time to the beat of whatever song is currently blasting through the speakers stationed on the walls. The room is bathed in flashing red and blue lights, and it’s so dark that all he can really make out is the white of Keith’s teeth when he grins.

“Don’t just stand there,” Keith says, grabbing Shiro’s arms and smoothly looping them around his waist. “Dance with me.”

“I don’t dance,” Shiro says automatically, and Keith shrugs.

“Neither do I.”

It’s a lie, clearly, because that’s the exact moment Keith gets right up into his space. Shiro can’t breathe, then, especially when Keith drags his hands onto his hips.

“Stop thinking,” he murmurs, a smile tugging the corner of his lips up. “Just go with it.”

Go with it.

Right. Easy for _him_ to say. Shiro nods slowly, his feet feeling too big and his movements to fast and jerky to be considered graceful. It makes Keith chuckle though, enough that his eyes crinkle at the corners, and he looks so honest to god _happy_ that Shiro finds himself slowly beginning to relax.

“Do you want to get a drink?”

It takes a couple of tries for Shiro to understand what the hell Keith is saying, but once he gets it he nods. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t been a _hell no_.

But under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have _Keith Kogane_ dancing with him.

Keith drags him through the crowd yet again, and Shiro has to use his elbows more than once to make his way through. He feels shitty as hell about it, but no one punches him in the throat for it, so he figures he’s fine.

Keith orders them _something_ , and the bartender smirks at him like he knows the ID Keith’s waving at him is fake. He doesn’t bother to ID Shiro, which feels wrong. He doesn’t pipe up though, and Keith shoots him a triumphant grin.

After a few minutes, there’s a shot glass pushed into his hand, and then Keith’s leaning close to him, tilting his head to the side.

“What?” Shiro asks, self-conscious, and Keith shrugs.

“Bottoms up,” he says, throwing the shot back like it’s nothing.

Shiro stares down at the amber liquid in his glass before he squeezes his eyes shut and chugs it. It burns, and more than that it’s bitter as _hell_.

“Fuck,” he whispers, wheezing as he lungs try to expel themselves from his body, and Keith slaps his back in a way that’s probably supposed to be gentle but does _not_ help.

“A couple more and you won’t even feel it,” Keith says, flicking him on the nose, and then he’s off and disappearing into the crowd again.

It takes Shiro a while to find him again, but once he does he just stops and _stares_. There’s a guy behind Keith, all tanned and tall and broad as hell, and he’s got his hands on Keith’s hips. And Keith’s grinding against him, head tossed back, until he turns around and meets Shiro’s eyes.

Then Keith’s moving, and moving, and he’s back on Shiro, their bodies pressed together so tightly that there’s hardly any room between them. And now Keith’s grinding on _him_ , and Shiro’s hands linger awkwardly above Keith’s waist before Keith squeezes his hands, tangling their fingers together and forcing him to _touch_.

Shiro’s mind goes blank, and all he can do his sway his hips as best as he can, dig his fingers into Keith’s waist and imagine that he’s leaving his mark behind. It makes liquid heat pool in his gut, and his toes curl in his sneakers, throat dry and sweat beading along his hairline.

“I thought about this all the time,” Keith says then, right up against his ear, and a shiver races down Shiro’s spine.

“W-What?”

“You,” Keith explains, linking his arms behind Shiro’s neck just as he rolls their hips together. “How’d you touch me. What you’d feel like.”

It’s the alcohol talking, Shiro tells himself. Doesn’t stop it from affecting him, from making him feel like he and Keith are standing on the edge of something, flirting with danger, seconds away from falling off and crashing down. There wouldn’t be any coming back from that, he knows, but at the moment, Shiro doesn’t give a damn.

“I keep telling myself this is enough,” Keith goes on, and Shiro’s feeling insanely light-headed now. “But I don’t think it is.”

He feels like he’s been socked in the gut or something, with the way his breath leaves him in a rush. Keith’s just staring at him, and he’s so _close_ , and everything feels like too much. He doesn’t say so, but Keith’s got a hand around his wrist and suddenly they’re ducking out of the back door.

The cool air feels amazing on Shiro’s overheated skin. Keith gets the keys for Mei’s Sentra from the valet, and when he pushes Shiro down into the passenger side seat, he doesn’t protest.

“Don’t crash,” Shiro says, tongue three sizes too big for his mouth. “Aunt Mei will kill me.”

Keith smirks and accelerates so quickly that Shiro swears his brain’s getting knocked around in his skull. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he opens his eyes they’re parked in front of Keith’s old home.

Keith’s gone, so Shiro unbuckles himself and lets himself into the shack. It looks different than the last time Shiro was here. It’s cleaner, and there are a few pictures on the table. He picks one up and his eyes widen once he realizes what it is.

It’s Keith, young enough that he’s still got baby fat clinging to his cheeks. He’s with his parents, Shiro guesses, mostly because Keith looks like a perfect mixture of them. His mother is breathtakingly beautiful, and his father has the warmest eyes Shiro’s ever seen.

“I don’t have that many pictures of them.”

Shiro jumps, clutching the picture frame to his chest. Keith’s sitting on top of the counter, kicking his legs. He’s not looking at Shiro.

Shiro delicately sets the picture down.

“I’ve been spending more time here,” Keith continues, frowning at something Shiro can’t see. “It still hurts like hell, but I think it’s helping.”

“What were they like?”

“My parents?” Keith murmurs. “Really fucking awesome, honestly. But I think I’m starting to forget them.”

Shiro swallows thickly. “How old were you when they died?”

“Eight.”

Shiro inhales sharply.

“I, uh, was five when my aunt and grandpa adopted me. I don’t remember my dad that much. He wasn’t really around. And you already know about my mom.”

“Yeah,” Keith whispers. He lifts his head then, and his gaze feels like it’s boring holes through Shiro’s body. “Hey. C’mere.”

Shiro shuffles towards him, stopping about a foot away. Keith hooks his leg around the back of Shiro’s thigh and pulls him in until he has no choice but to stand between Keith’s legs. He keeps his hands curled around the counter, and he’s frowning when he says:

“Kiss me.”

Shiro’s mouth goes so, so dry, and he licks his lips before he forces himself to speak.

“You’re drunk.”

“Drunk, sober,” Keith mumbles, tightening his legs around Shiro’s body. “I’m always gonna want you, whatever way I can get you.”

Shiro presses his hands onto the counter, and he tries not to shiver when Keith puts his own over them.

“You don’t want me the same way I want _you_ ,” Shiro says, and even though it hurts like a bitch to say, he _has to_. “I’m just another person to fuck around with.”

“You’re not.”

“Then what am I?”

He doesn’t know why he’s speaking, why he won’t just shut up and give into Keith. Maybe it’s because there’s been something brewing between them all night, and he just _wants_.

“More than I can explain,” Keith says, and if he didn’t sound so damn serious Shiro would think he’s taking the easy way out. “It doesn’t make any fucking sense, but that’s how it is. And I don’t get it.”

“I’ve liked you since freshman year,” Shiro confesses, and it feels like a weight’s been lifted off his chest when he says it. “First time I saw you, I couldn’t do anything but stare.”

“You should’ve said something sooner.”

“For what?” Shiro mutters, scoffing. “It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“It would’ve changed everything,” Keith says, and he’s got this edge to his voice that Shiro can’t place. “Maybe I wouldn’t be this fucked if I had you then.”

“You’re not fucked, Keith.”

“You’re right. I’m beyond that.”

His fingernails are biting into the skin on the back of Shiro’s hand, but he doesn’t move. It’s like he’s transfixed, unable to do anything in the presence of the beautiful boy in front of him. Because that’s exactly what Keith is. Goddamn _gorgeous_ , and miles out of Shiro’s league.

He’d be an idiot to forget that, to believe for one second that he has some semblance of a chance. But then Keith’s kissing him, slow and sweet, and the line starts to get a bit blurred. Everything seemed so black and white before, back when Shiro was still stealing glances at Keith in the parking lot.

Before he met Keith, everything made sense. Shiro knew his proverbial place, knew that he had no business falling for someone he could never have. But now he’s here, kissing Keith like he’ll never get the chance to again, and everything he thought he understood is _fucked_.

“I don’t want you to stop wanting me,” Keith says, the words rushed and garbled against Shiro’s mouth, and Shiro tries his hardest to chase them before Keith clams up on him. “I don’t want you to give up on me.”

“I won’t,” Shiro says, and it feels so much like a promise that he feels himself getting choked up about it. “I don’t know how to.”

“I want to change,” he says then, and it’s so quiet that Shiro’s ready to tell himself he’s imagined it. “But I’m fucking terrified, Shiro.”

“You don’t have to be,” he says, and he thinks distantly that he has no right to say so. He’s scared all the goddamn time. “I’m not—I’m not going to hurt you.”

“People say that all the time,” Keith points out, finally pulling away. He doesn’t go very far, though. “But that’s usually what they end up doing.”

There’s the unspoken question of _what makes you so different_ hanging between them then, and Shiro doesn’t have an answer for it. He just presses his forehead to Keith’s, sucks in a deep breath and gathers his courage.

“Do you trust me?”

“Trust you,” Keith repeats flatly.

“ _Do you_?”

His heart’s beating so goddamn loud in his ears, like there’s a whole fucking rock band inside his body. He’s staring hard at Keith’s throat, watching as his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, and feels Keith’s breath ghost over his lips when he says:

“Yes.”


	11. Trust Me

It’s raining, both figuratively and literally, when Shiro awakes.

He can hear it, the rain hitting the thin glass of the windows, the wind howling angrily in the distance. He swears he can taste it, the damp earth on his tongue, and for some reason he’s suddenly back with his mother and his father. He’s got Ryou’s hand wrapped around his own, and they’re huddled beneath the window in their tiny little room, listening as their parents scream their heads off. There's a storm brewing inside of him, something just as vicious as the one outside, and he prays and prays that it won't turn into a hurricane.

Normally when this happens, when his mind forces him to remember things he swore he’d try to forget, he panics. Works himself up into a sweat, shoves his face into his pillow, shuts himself off from the world. He lets himself drown in the flood, lets everything wash over him until it overtakes him.

But he’s strangely calm this time.

His heart’s not racing, he’s not on the verge of tears. Really, he’s feeling a whole lot of _nothing_ right now.

It takes a while for his brain to start working again, to remind him that he isn’t where he thinks he is. He’s not with his parents, or even with Grandpa Jin and Aunt Mei. He’s in Keith’s old shack, and Keith is curled up on the other end of the couch, fast asleep.

Lightning crackles outside, flashing against Keith’s face, making him even paler than usual. Shiro drags his knees up to his chest and buries his face there, digging his fingers into his ankles to ground himself.

When he lifts his head, Keith is watching him.

“What time is it?” he asks, voice gruff from disuse, hair a wild mess on his head. 

“I don’t know. Early.” It's hard to get the words out.

Keith hums softly, shifting onto his stomach. He picks his phone up from the wooden pallet beside them, the undoubtedly overpriced iPhone that everyone from Prep seems to have glued to their hands.

Keith presses his toes to the side of Shiro’s thigh, wiggling his toes at intervals like he’s trying to get a reaction. Shiro plucks at a thread on his sweater, pretending to be busy, face getting warmer and warmer when he realizes Keith is still staring at him.

“You good?” Keith asks then, and Shiro starts, not expecting it. Keith shrugs it off though, sitting up and stretching his arms over his head. “You don’t drink, so I figured you’d be hungover.”

“I didn’t drink that much,” Shiro says. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Keith says, shrugging again. He hops off the couch and shuffles into the kitchen. “Hungry?”

“Not really.” His stomach grumbles loudly as soon as he says that, and it’s loud enough that Keith narrows his eyes at it.

But he doesn’t push it, choosing to bring a huge jar of instant coffee down from the cabinet. He dumps one scoop too many into a mug and fills it to the brim with water. Shiro watches Keith microwave his coffee, and then swear when he takes a sip.

“I should probably go,” Shiro begins, tongue too big for his mouth, and he feels like he’s about to choke. “Aunt Mei’s gonna kill me when she realizes I took the car.”

Silence hangs between them for a moment, long enough that Shiro gets the unshakeable feeling that he’s said something wrong.

“I can drop you off home,” he offers then, and Keith glances up at him sharply.

“You stayed,” Keith says flatly, taking a slower, more cautious sip of his coffee. He doesn’t curse up a storm this time.

“I—yeah, I did,” Shiro says, stumbling over the words, always _stumbling_ when it comes to Keith.

Keith doesn’t say anything else, and it’s so insanely frustrating that Shiro bites back a scream. He doesn’t understand this, understand _Keith_. It’s a constant game of three steps forward, two steps backward, and Shiro’s probably going to hit his limit real damn soon.

He scratches at the back of his neck, watching as Keith leans over the counter, glaring down at his coffee like it’s done something to personally offend him. If a pin were to drop right now, Shiro’s sure he’d hear it loud and clear.

“I don’t need the help anymore,” Keith says, and when Shiro gives him a blank, confused look, he rolls his eyes and huffs out an irritated breath like Shiro’s a goddamn idiot. “You know, with school.”

“Ah,” Shiro says slowly, as his mind begins the rather taxing process of interpreting the words. “Okay. Cool.”

It’s not _cool_ , not really, but Shiro’s brain is just doing its own thing, not waiting for any input from him. He snaps his mouth shut and grinds his teeth together, averting his eyes from Keith to avoid the probably scathing look that’s being directed towards him at the moment.

Shiro’s skin feels all tight, like a rubber band stretched to its breaking point, and at any second he expects himself to just _snap_. Sweat beads up along his hairline just as his nerves twist into a knot that sits solidly in the base of his stomach.

“Last night,” he begins delicately, the fear of rejection looming over him like a dark cloud. “You meant all of that, right?”

Keith’s not looking at him, not even trying to, and Shiro tries to ignore the crushing feeling of disappointment that washes over him. Keith doesn’t need to speak, doesn’t need to say a goddamn word, but Shiro knows exactly what this means.

Nothing.

Nothing has changed between them, nothing at all. They’re back at the start, back where Keith pushes him back and back, and where Shiro chases after him even when he’s tired and hurt and _angry_ , somewhere, beneath everything else he’s feeling.

He’s overwhelmed, his metaphorical cup of emotions filled to the fucking brim. Shiro curls his hands into fists, lets the bite of his nails into his palms, and the sharp pain that accompanies it, keep him grounded.

“I gotta,” Shiro starts, falters, swallows down the rejection, pretends that he doesn’t feel like he’s just been kicked in the teeth. “I gotta go.”

He stands up so fast he almost falls over, the world swimming in waves around him, crashing against his skull. He’s drowning, worse than before, gasping for air, trying desperately to reach the surface but failing every goddamn time.

“Shiro,” he hears behind him, when he’s halfway to the door, gripping the doorknob hard enough that his knuckles throb.

And he waits, for one second, for two, three, almost four. But Keith doesn’t say anything else, and when Shiro glances back at him, he doesn’t look anywhere near crushed, nothing like how devasted Shiro _feels_.

The rain has trickled off to nothing more than a drizzle when he forces himself outside. Water spots the fabric of his sweatshirt, and Shiro tugs his hood up and over his head. His keys feel heavy in his palm and pushing them into the ignition of the Sentra feels robotic. Twist, turn, release. Press down on the brake, shift gears, reverse. Shift gears again. Foot on the gas. And go.

He’s trying desperately not to think, to just focus on the task on hand: getting home in once piece. Only, home isn’t where the Sentra takes him. He’s parked in front of a locked gate, staring at a bright blue Lambo before he can recognize where the hell he is. His hands shake as he gets out of the car.

Scaling a fence is easier this time around, probably because Shiro isn’t trying to impress anybody, isn’t scared shitless that he’s going to be caught. He just doesn’t _care_ , and there’s something inherently dangerous about that that he’s careful to ignore.

Everything’s calmer, now that the lawn isn’t filled with drunk teenagers, and that there isn’t shitty trap music shaking the house, threatening to crack the windows.

He pounds on the door until his fists hurt, until a girl with tanned skin and glasses opens the door, gives him a once over, and releases this drawn out sigh, like she’s about to let Shiro down in the most delicate way possible. He’s ready to tell her that he’s well-accustomed to rejection at this point, but before he can she crosses her arms over her chest and turns her head towards the stairs.

“Lance!”

Shiro jumps, not expecting the sudden increase of volume, and the girl sighs heavily before she steps back.

“Are you gonna come in?”

Shiro steps in, carefully situating himself on the pristine welcome mat beneath his feet. The girl turns for the stairs just as Lance comes bounding down them like he’s on fire.

“Veronica, a pleasure to see you as always.”

“Fuck off,” she bites, all acid, but it doesn’t break the easy smile on Lance’s face. “Stop inviting your dumb friends over when Mom and Dad aren’t home.”

“What?” Lance squawks, throwing a hand against his chest dramatically. “I didn’t invite anyone—”

Shiro cuts him off by subtly clearing his throat. Lance looks at him like he’s just seen a ghost, mouth hung ajar before he shuts it.

“Oh shit,” he mutters, loud enough that Shiro winces from his designated spot by the door. “Shiro?”

Veronica disappears upstairs and a door slams shut somewhere in the house. Shiro rocks on his heels, hands tucked in his pocket, hood still drawn firmly over his head.

“Well,” Lance starts. “What happened?”

“I, nothing, I just…”

“Keith?”

“Yeah,” Shiro says, no louder than a whisper, and he ignores the irritated tick of Lance’s jaw.

“I warned you,” Lance says, but he doesn’t sound smug, not like how Shiro expects him to. He sounds a little like he pities him, but Shiro can’t decide if that’s better or worse.

“Yeah,” Shiro murmurs again, and Lance hums quietly.

“You’re a good guy,” he says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “Keith eats guys like you for breakfast.” He hops off the last stair and lingers in front of Shiro, raising an eyebrow. “What brings you to my humble abode anyway?

“I don’t know,” Shiro confesses.

The truth is that he does know, but there’s just so goddamn much that Shiro doesn’t know how to put it into words. Lance squints at something over his shoulder, and Shiro turns to see what’s so interesting.

“Did you climb the gate?” Lance asks, sounding awed, and Shiro feels his ears get unbearably hot.

When he doesn't answer, Lance snorts and turns down the hallway. Shiro follows after him hesitantly, shoes quietly squeaking with every tiny step. Lance’s kitchen looks different than the last time Shiro had been here, and it feels almost too big without the hundred and one bodies filling every square inch of the room.

Lance busies himself in the kitchen while Shiro stands off to the side, staring at the lake. The bench looks cold and lonely now, and something sharp twists in his gut.

When he tears his gaze away, Lance is giving him a look that Shiro doesn’t have the strength or patience to unpack at the moment.

“What do you even see in him?” Lance asks, leaning over the counter, looking at Shiro like he’s something to be analyzed, something to _examine_. It makes him naked somehow, and Shiro crosses his arms over his chest uncomfortably.

“I wish people would stop asking me that.”

He doesn’t expect to say the words, especially not with the sharp bite they come out with. Lance smirks, holding his hands up in a placating gesture.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says. “Didn’t realize I hit a nerve there.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Shiro says, flushing with shame, but Lance waves him off. Shiro licks his dry lips, considering his next words. “You guys are friends, right?”

Lance stiffens.

“Friend’s a bit of a generous term.”

“But you are, aren’t you?”

“Why does it matter?” Lance says, scowling. “If Keith wanted me around, I’d be there.”

“I think he does,” Shiro says, softly, losing his nerve under Lance’s heavy gaze. “He doesn’t know how to say what he needs.”

“He opened up to you.” Shiro’s sure it’s supposed to be a question, with the way Lance’s jaw is dropped, but it comes out as a statement instead, and Shiro has no choice but to nod.

“Did you give up on him?”

Lance doesn’t answer for a moment. Shiro’s ready to backtrack, to apologize, say he didn’t mean to push so much, but then Lance begins to speak.

“It’s not like I wanted to,” he says, sounding a bit defensive, and Shiro feels like shit all over again. “He didn’t give me a choice. He’s good at pushing people away. The ones who care, anyway.”

Shiro stares down at the granite countertop stretching before him. He can vaguely make out Lance’s reflection, and when he squints, he can make out his own. There’s a speck of dirt on his glasses, and he busies himself with cleaning it off as he steels his nerves.

“Did you know about the drugs?”

“I didn’t know about the crack, no,” Lance answers. “James got him into the rough shit.”

“Who is he, anyway?” Shiro asks. “That James guy.”

Lance presses his lips together into a firm line.

“Keith didn’t tell you?”

“No,” Shiro says, stomach curling. “He brushed it off when I asked.”

“He’s a dealer. Weed, mostly, but he got his hands on some other crap and now all the idiots love him. The only reason Keith gives him the time of day is because James puts up with all of his bullshit.”

“You still care about him.”

“Of course I do,” Lance says, rolling his eyes. “Keith’s like a brother to me. But I can’t help someone who doesn’t want to help himself.”

“He does,” Shiro insists.

“Then why are you _here_?” Lance points out, looking somewhat smug when Shiro stares at him, unable to speak. “You haven’t changed him, Shirogane. You _can’t_.”

“Maybe not. But… _we_ can.”

Lance snorts.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“He’ll listen to you,” Shiro says, shrinking in on himself, and Lance rolls his eyes yet again.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, and it’s close enough to a yes that Shiro almost, _almost_ smiles.

 

 

 

 

“Takashi Shirogane!”

Shiro freezes, halfway out of the Sentra. Aunt Mei is on the porch, wrapped up in a bathrobe, glaring daggers at him. Shiro fully steps out of the car, slamming the door shut and trying to pretend he doesn’t feel like he’s marching towards his certain death.

He expects Aunt Mei to go on a rant about responsibility and answering his phone (seven missed calls, with seven voicemails that he’d been too terrified to listen to). But instead, her expression softens and she sighs, pulling him into a hug.

“Takashi?” she asks, and he just breaks.

He tells her everything, from the first time Keith spoke to him at 7-Eleven, to this morning in the shack, and when he’s done he’s shaking. Even with his glasses on his vision is blurry, and it takes him a while to realize he’s on the verge of tears.

He sucks in a deep breath and sags against the wall. Aunt Mei grabs his hand and leads him into the living room, where he collapses onto the couch and wraps himself in the hideous yet warm throw blanket draped over the arm.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Shiro says. It hurts, but the truth usually does, doesn’t it?

“That happens in life,” Mei says. “Sometimes more than you’d like to admit.”

“I just…”

“Care about him?”

“Yeah,” Shiro says, digging his chin into Aunt Mei’s shoulder when she pulls him into her side. “A lot.”

His voice cracks, and Aunt Mei sighs softly, ruffling his hair as she does.

“It’ll work out, Takashi,” she says, and for once Shiro wishes she would rant on about making the right decisions and having a plan.

“How?”

“You’ll have to decide that,” she says, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “I can’t help you with this one.”

Shiro pushes himself up, pressing his back against the cushions. Aunt Mei puts on a movie, and Shiro loses himself in the problems of fictional characters until it’s easy to forget his own, just for a little while.

In the morning, he’s staring down at a bowl of soggy oatmeal, watching Ryou play a game on his phone. Aunt Mei is her usual chipper self as she brews a pot of coffee, and Grandpa Jin is suspiciously quiet.

“Alright you two, get a move on,” Aunt Mei says from the kitchen, poking her head around the doorway. “You’re going to be late.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ryou says, waving her off, but he stands up and grabs his bag anyway. “See ya.”

“Bye Aunt Mei,” Shiro says, and she smiles softly before grabbing his shoulders and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Bye, Grandpa.”

Pidge is waiting for him by Michelle when Shiro arrives at Garrison High. He shoves his bike into the rack and listens as she talks about…something. Usually he’d be far more attentive, but the last twenty four hours have kind of drained him of every bit of energy he has.

“Hey, big guy,” Pidge says, punching him on the shoulder. It hurts more than it should, and when Shiro points that out, she smiles smugly.

“What?”

“Don’t look now, but Keith’s coming this way.”

“What?” Shiro squeaks, louder than before, and whirls around before he can stop himself.

Behind him, he hears Pidge groan and shout something about _I said_ don’t _look_ , but her words are like static crackling on the radio. He can hardly hear them over the way his heart pounds in his ears.

Because Keith’s walking over to him—storming over, really—and Shiro’s life flashes before his eyes.

There’s a literal fire burning in Keith’s eyes, and when he speaks, Shiro imagines flames curling out of his mouth into the space between them, singeing the hair on his arms.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Keith snarls, and then Shiro’s being shoved back so hard he stumbles.

“Whoa, hey,” Pidge pipes up then, stepping in front of Shiro. “What the hell are you doing?”

Keith glares at her, but he doesn’t make to hit Shiro again. Shiro swallows hard, hands trembling.

“It’s okay, Pidge,” he says.

“What?” Pidge turns to look at him incredulously, but all of his attention is on Keith.

Keith, who’s clenching his jaw, fisted hands hanging at his side, shoulders heaving like he’s just run a marathon.

“We need to talk,” Keith grits out, but Pidge snorts from between them and he has to seethe down at her instead.

“Yeah, right. I don’t think so buddy. C’mon, Shiro.”

He doesn’t try very hard to get out of Pidge’s hold. She all but drags him into the building, and when he glances over his shoulder, Keith is staring at him with an unreadable expression.

It’s Tuesday, so herds him into the cafeteria and deposits him into a seat at their usual table like he’s a sack of potatoes. Shiro just lets himself fall, feeling numb and over-sensitized at the same time.

“What the hell was that?” Pidge asks, her eyes wide behind her glasses.

Shiro adjusts his own, swearing he can still feel Keith’s hands on his chest, pushing him back.

“Nothing,” he says, voice hollow.

He expects Pidge to push. He has a whole list of excuses prepared in case she does, anything to hide the truth from her. He’s good at that, anyway. Lying to people who care about him, pretending nothing hurts when the truth is that _everything_ hurts, all the goddamn time.

But maybe she senses he’s not in the mood to talk about it, because she doesn’t say anything. Not about Keith, at least.

“We’re probably gonna camp out at Lake Herold on Saturday. You in?”

Shiro stares at Pidge for a few shocked seconds before his brain decides to finally kick in and provide him with a response.

“Sure, yeah. Sounds good.”

Pidge watches him for a moment before she sighs and rests her chin on her palm.

“Do you know what you’re getting into?” she asks, and Shiro doesn’t know why he assumed she wouldn’t bring up Keith again.

“One hundred percent,” he says, but he doesn’t feel as sure about it as he should.

 

 

 

 

“Uh, Shiro?”

He pauses in the middle of trying to pluck Matt’s glasses off his face after getting roasted by him (there’s nothing wrong with his jaw, Matt you fucking _asshole_ ). Hunk is pointing at the parking lot, his eyes a little wide and a lot scared. Terrified, really, which isn’t an uncommon look for Hunk, except right now he looks like he’s ten seconds away from pissing himself.

There’s a low murmur of voices around him, and Shiro’s instantly reminded of all those cliché high school movies. Something mildly scandalous happens and every bystander talks about it like it’s the most interesting thing they’ve seen today.

Looking at Keith’s untucked shirt, smooth, pale skin, and tight, _tight_ black pants, Shiro guesses he can see what all the fuss is about.

Matt falters at his side, smile slowly slipping away. He looks at Keith, who’s leaning on his cherry red bike, shades on like those bad boys Shiro secretly gushes about every time he watches one of Matt’s ridiculous rom-coms.

“I think he’s here for you,” Hunk continues, oh so helpfully, and Shiro tries not to roll his eyes when Pidge scoffs from behind him.

“I’ll see you guys later,” he says, voice not trembling even a little.

He steps onto the curb, the only thing separating him from Keith. Keith has his hands tucked into his pockets, and the tilt of his chin is the only indication Shiro gets that his presence has been acknowledged.

“What’s up?” Shiro asks, aiming for casual, and he’s positive he doesn’t imagine the irritated quirk of Keith’s lips.

“You talked to Lance,” Keith says, voice low.

Shiro glances over to the other side of the parking lot, over to Prep. Lance’s blue Lambo isn’t anywhere in sight.

“He told you?” Shiro says, feeling a little giddy even though Keith looks like he’s going to skin him alive.

“He showed up at my house,” Keith says. He crosses his arms over his chest. “What the hell are you trying to do, Shirogane?”

“I thought you said you trusted me.”

Keith purses his lips like he’s about to argue but decides not to, and it takes everything Shiro has not to grin triumphantly.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Act like you trust me and I will.”

Keith arches his eyebrows. Shiro tells himself it’s because he’s impressed and totally _not_ about to kick him into next week.

“You’re an idiot.”

“I know,” Shiro says, recognizing the exact moment Keith gives up on arguing with him. “Hey.”

“What?” Keith mutters, glaring off at something to his right.

“I’m going camping this Saturday,” Shiro says, the words spilling out without any true effort on his part. He doesn’t know if he should add that his friends will be there. The very friends who have many opinions about Keith, with more than a quarter of said opinions being _negative_. “You should come.”

“Camping?” Keith echoes quietly.

“I want you to come,” Shiro adds hastily, shifting awkwardly before Keith, swallowing so hard his throat clicks audibly. “If you want to. No pressure or anything.”

Keith uncrosses his arms, but Shiro’s unsure if he should count that as a win or not. He doesn’t expect Keith to answer. Not right now, anyway.

Keith scoffs, swinging his leg over his bike and settling onto his seat.

“Sorry,” Shiro says, stepping that much closer. “I was just trying to help.”

He can’t tell if Keith is looking at him, no matter how much he squints at his dark sunglasses. Silence settles between them, stretching on for an eternity before Keith revs his bike and peels out of the parking lot.

Time seems to speed forward after that. Before he knows it, it’s Saturday and he and Hunk are trying to pitch a tent while the Holt’s are suspiciously absent.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Hunk asks anxiously, for the third time in the past five minutes.

Even so, Shiro waves him off again and stabs a pole into the dirt, kicking it in for good measure until it doesn’t look like it’s going to topple over.

“I know how to set up a tent, Hunk.”

“Correctly?”

They have a stare off that lasts about ten seconds before Hunk ducks his head and rushes to give Shiro the pole he points at. They work like that for a while, Shiro putting up the framework while Hunk hovers over his shoulder like Shiro can’t be trusted.

He’s about to assure Hunk that they’re fine for the nth time when there’s the crunch of gravel behind them. Shiro doesn’t mean to turn so quickly that he whacks Hunk in the gut with a pole, and he’s spewing apologies just as Pidge and Matt make their way over to them.

“Aw man, you got started without us?” Matt whines, though he doesn’t look nearly as disappointed as he sounds.

Pidge rolls her eyes, solidifying Shiro’s theory that their delayed arrival has _everything_ to do with Matt’s intense hatred of manual labor.

He feels like shit when something like disappointment swells up inside of him. He’d texted the details to Keith last night, but he hadn’t gotten a response. Which is fine. Really. Shiro’s totally chill about it.

Okay, maybe not _that_ chill. But no one besides him has to know.

“Is Ryou coming?”

“Huh?” Shiro snaps to attention when he hears Pidge’s voice right next to him.

“Ryou,” she repeats slowly. “He bailed on us again?”

“He hates camping,” Shiro says. “Aunt Mei’s working today, so I didn’t exactly have any help convincing him to come.”

When Shiro had brought up the idea earlier in the morning, Ryou had gone on and on about mosquitoes and a lack of air conditioning. Grandpa Jin had just sat there, sipping his coffee. If he had a bag of popcorn, Shiro’s sure he would’ve been munching away at it, watching the chaos unfold before him. Ryou had only stopped when Shiro swore over and over that it was fine, he doesn’t need to come, _forget I even asked_.

Pidge shrugs, smiling. “It’s fine. He would’ve bitched the entire time anyway.”

“True,” Shiro agrees with a shudder.

With Pidge's help, Shiro finishes putting up the tents in half an hour. Maybe even less. Hunk and Matt have their own, mostly because Pidge hasn’t shared a room with him since they _were, like ten_ , and has no interest listening to Matt ramble into the wee hours of the morning. She’d brought her own tent, which she set up far away from the boys, leaving Shiro to pitch his next to Hunk and Matt’s.

“We totally could’ve shared a tent,” Matt says, hopping up onto Michelle’s flatbed. “It would’ve been epic.”

“I don’t kick anymore,” Hunk pipes up, in the middle of arranging firewood in the middle of a circle of rocks. “Seriously.”

Shiro winces. One time when they were in middle school, Aunt Mei had laid out air mattresses in the living room for them all to sleep on. Shiro had ended up next to Hunk, which had been fine. Until the snoring and flailing and screams of terror started. It took pouring a cup of water over his head to wake him up, which then made him cold and cranky for the rest of the night.

“Right,” Shiro drawls, totally unconvinced. “It’s cool. I don’t mind being alone.”

Matt shrugs, pulling a can of soda out of the cooler behind him. He tosses one to Hunk, who catches it perfectly. Shiro can’t help but to laugh. When it comes to food, Hunk never misses his chance.

“Hey, did you sort that thing out with Keith?” Matt asks, popping the tab of his Coke.

“Yeah. Mostly,” Shiro says, lying through his goddamn teeth _yet again_.

Matt doesn’t point out that Shiro’s avoiding looking at them. Neither does Hunk, and Shiro feels incredibly grateful for the small mercy he’s been given.

Once it starts to get dark out, Hunk lights the fire and Pidge finally emerges from her tent, headphones on and tapping incessantly at her tablet.

“This might be our last camping trip,” Hunk says suddenly, and Matt’s head whips towards him.

“Oh shit,” he says, eyes wide. “You’re right, dude.”

Shiro swallows hard.

“It’s not gonna be our last,” he says firmly.

“C’mon Shiro,” Matt says, shaking his head. “You’re going off to NYU. That’s, like, a bajillion miles away from here.”

“More like two thousand, give or take some,” Pidge interjects, and she rolls her eyes when they all give her a quizzical look. “What? I looked it up.”

“It’s not that far,” Shiro protests weakly. He shrinks down into his hoodie, tucking his chin down. Even with the fire crackling in front of him, he feels like he’s freezing.

“I’m just gonna miss this,” Hunk says wistfully, and he looks dangerously close to tears. “Everything’s gonna to change.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Shiro insists, and now he’s even feeling a little misty-eyed. “We’re gonna keep in touch. It’ll be like we never left.”

“You’re the only one leaving, Shiro,” Matt points out. It's a harsh reminder that Shiro's going to leave Garrison, just like so many others do. But his friends are still going to be here, his  _family_ , is still going to be here, and for once, Shiro's doing the leaving instead of being left behind.

Shiro’s going to argue that this is different, than he's not leaving Garrison just because he can, really, but _Keith_ is standing behind Pidge, motorcycle pulled to the edge of the road. He’s wearing ripped jeans and a tee-shirt that make look like he’s just like any other teenager. For a moment, it’s easy to forget about Garrison Prep and mansions and nights of debauchery. Shiro imagines him fitting into their little group seamlessly, like he's been there from the start, and something inside of him  _aches_.

Shiro snaps his gaping jaw shut with a click. Matt twists to see what he’s looking at before he shoots up.

“I forgot something in the car!” he exclaims, grabbing Hunk’s shoulder.

“Huh?” Hunk asks, stumbling after him.

Somewhere along the way, Matt snags Pidge, right before she can go off on the tirade Shiro’s sure she’s got prepared.

And then it’s just Shiro and Keith, with an open flame and the sky stretching out above them. They’re out in the open, practically in the middle of nowhere, and yet Shiro feels like there isn’t enough space here for them both.

“You came.”

He’s shocked. No use hiding it. Keith shrugs it off like it’s not a big deal, like it shouldn’t make Shiro’s heart do somersaults in his chest.

“You asked me to,” Keith says, and for some reason, Shiro gets the feeling that there’s much more to this than that.

“Thanks,” he says, voice tight, watching the way Keith shuffles close.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Keith says, but his eyes are sparkling, and when he drops himself down into one of the abandoned chairs, Shiro can’t help but to think—over and over—that Keith is _staying_.


	12. Loverboy

Once the realization that Keith is here—literally right _here_ — sets in, Shiro recognizes the moment he's fucked with an increasing feeling of despair stemming from the fact that he doesn’t know what to say. He stares at the dying fire with this knot in his stomach, something so twisted up inside himself he swears even a Boy Scout would walk away from it.

So, _bad_.

Keith’s not saying anything either, which just makes this whole thing worse. There are a billion thoughts in Shiro’s head, but when he tries to unravel them, they come out all jumbled. Like a bunch of useless syllables and letters that don’t make any fucking sense, not even to himself.

“I—” he begins, a truly shitty start, but loses his nerve when Keith’s sharp eyes snap towards him. “Lance talked to you?”

Keith narrows his eyes.

“He said you wanted him to help me.”

“I did. Do, I mean.”

There's the unspoken _why_ hanging in the air between them. Shiro watches the irritated quirk of Keith’s mouth and finds the words tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“I just, I wanna help you, really. That’s it. I don’t have an ulterior motive or anything. I just…care, I guess.”

He bites down hard on his lip to stop himself from saying something else incriminating. He feels like he’s on the tipping point of something, that he’ll fall deep down into nothing with one gentle push. He’s got a severe case of cottonmouth and he can’t fucking _breathe_.

Because Keith’s just looking at him. Not saying a goddamn word. He’s doing it again, analyzing Shiro, breaking him down, putting him back up, trying to figure out the hidden meaning between his words.

But Shiro’s got nothing to hide. Not now. Not for a long time, really. It’s terrifying, to be so transparent, to say what he means when he wants to, to not have a little voice in the back of his head warning him that this is too much, too fast. In the grand scheme of things, it isn’t. He’s eighteen years old, has been harboring a crush on the same boy for the entirety of his high school existence. And he’s _tired_.

Tired of holding back, tired of doubting himself, tired of thinking he doesn’t deserve something as simple as another _person_.

“You care about me.”

Maybe it’s supposed to be a question, with the slow, even way Keith says the words. But when Shiro forces himself to look at his face, to meet his eyes and hold his gaze there, Keith looks petrified. He reminds himself again that Keith _trusts_ him, that he’s placed something with so much weight into Shiro’s hands.

He’s scared too. Scared he’ll crush Keith’s trust, scared that Keith will clam up on him again, scared that all of this—whatever the fuck this is—will never go _anywhere_.

“You told me you were scared to change.”

“I am.”

“I know what that’s like. I’m scared all the time. But sometimes, you just need someone to help you get through it.”

A beat of silence passes between them. Keith rakes his fingers through his hair, shakes his head and glares off at something Shiro can’t see.

“I don’t get you,” he says, and it sounds so much like a confession that Shiro’s heart seizes up in his chest. “I don’t think I ever will.”

“I’m not trying to hide anything.”

“I know,” Keith says, sharp, and his eyes are back on Shiro. “That’s what’s so fucking confusing.”

Shiro wants to say something, like Keith’s confusing as _hell_ , but he doesn’t. Because this isn’t about that. This is about…something. Something Shiro can’t put a finger on, because he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.

“Come with me.”

He doesn’t recognize his own voice. Keith arches his eyebrows, leaning forward slightly in his seat.

“What?”

Shiro stands up, swallowing past the lump in his throat, holding his hand out to Keith. He’s lucky it’s dark enough that Keith probably can’t see how bad it’s shaking.

Keith stares at him like he’s lost his mind, but then there’s pressure around his hand and Keith is pulling himself up. Shiro’s heart is pounding like a jackhammer in his chest, and he swears that’s a bead of sweat rolling down the back of his neck.

Shiro sucks in a deep breath and starts to walk. He hears more than sees Keith behind him, hears the crunch of gravel and the soft curse he lets out when he trips over something. Shiro laughs and he feels Keith’s free hand come up and pinch the skin between his ribs.

He stops walking when their campfire looks like a little orange dot in between the thick trees. Lake Herold looks like it doesn’t belong in Garrison. Where Garrison is all sand dunes and unbearable heat, Lake Herold has evergreen trees and rippling water stretching out for miles.

Shiro wonders then if there’s anything like Lake Herold in New York. He can’t picture it for some reason. All he can see are towering skyscrapers and yellow taxi cabs and people walking everywhere.

“This was the first place that made Garrison feel like home.”

“Yeah?” Keith steps up next to him, looks at the dark water before them. He’s still holding Shiro’s hand.

“My aunt and grandpa took me and Ryou here a lot as kids. We still come sometimes, but not as much. Everyone’s kinda busy now I guess.”

He doesn’t know why he sounds so sad about it, or why his eyes feel a little misty. He swears he hears Matt’s voice in his head, telling him NYU is a bajillion miles away. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about the distance. But before, getting out of Garrison felt like a necessity. He’d wanted to go as far as physically possible, and New York seemed like a good plan.

But it’s not home, and he can’t imagine himself making it one. He doesn’t know where this is coming from, where he’s getting all these thoughts. Keith squeezes his hand and Shiro turns to look at him.

“My dad used to take me cave exploring. My mom hated it, but I thought it was kinda awesome.”

“Find anything cool?”

“No,” Keith says with a snort. “Just a bunch of rocks.”

“Sounds cool to me.”

“It would,” Keith jokes, but then he’s shaking his head. “I miss it sometimes, but I don’t think I’d do it by myself. Feels weird without him. Like I’m doing something I shouldn’t be.”

He shifts his weight from foot to foot and Shiro drags him down to sit next to him. Keith gives him a quizzical look but folds his legs anyway, and now they're sitting shoulder to shoulder, twisting their fingers together in a way that makes Shiro’s mouth feel bone dry.

“I hate this fucking place,” Keith says then. “But my parents wanted to raise me here, and I don’t want to leave them behind.”

Shiro gets it. He thinks of Aunt Mei and Grandpa Jin, about Ryou who’s taking a gap year, about Matt and Hunk and Pidge and…and _Keith_.

He’d be leaving him behind too, wouldn’t he? Everyone he’s ever gave a shit about would be here and he’d be on a whole different coast. Under normal circumstances, Shiro would be counting down the days until he could get out of Garrison. But now, _now_ , he feels like leaving's the worst decision he’ll ever make.

And isn’t _that_ a thought.

“Keith, I like you.”

Keith snorts. “I know.”

“No, I _like_ you.”

He’s said it before, but he’d been braver then, with all the liquid courage he’d had pumping through his veins. But there’s none of that now. He’s sober, no alcohol to make his feelings feel a little less intense, to numb him to the point where he doesn’t give a shit about what he says.

He’s painfully aware of how loud he’s breathing, how hard he’s digging his fingers into the back of Keith’s hand, how he swears that this is it, it’s now or never, so _just_ —do something.

“That’s why I care. That’s why I’m helping you. Because I like you, and it’s killing me, and I don’t know what to _do_.”

“I like you too,” Keith mumbles, hushed, “but it feels selfish, and I don’t wanna be like that. Not with you.”

Shiro doesn’t know why, but he laughs. Loud, unapologetic, until his stomach hurts and he swears he can feel Keith boring a hole through his skull with his eyes. He drops back against the damp soil, feels twigs and rocks and god knows what digging into his spine. And Keith twists to look down at him, dark hair falling around his face in soft waves that don’t match his sharp nose and sharper jaw, but it works because it’s _Keith_.

“What are you—”

“I thought you didn’t know who I was,” Shiro says, still laughing because he feels like he’s a rocket being launched into the sky at an alarming pace. Maybe he’s finally lost it. “I mean, it has to be impossible, right? Guys like you don’t like guys like _me_.”

“I noticed you,” Keith says. “Always have.”

“ _God_. This is insane.”

Shiro’s the one running his fingers through his hair then, tugging at it like the pain will snap him out or whatever fucked dream this is. But when he opens his eyes, Keith’s still leaning over him, his eyes wide in the dark, and he can’t stop it, really.

Can’t stop himself from reaching up, tangling his fingers into Keith’s hair, kissing him with the kind of confidence he swears doesn’t belong to him. Because Takashi Shirogane never takes what he wants. He waits, and waits, and waits, until whatever he desires is so unbelievably out of reach.

That’s what he would’ve done with Keith, but Keith is nothing like what Shiro expected. He’s more than the rich boy with the pretty face and smart mouth, more than the reckless kid who fucks around to feel something, more than even the boy kissing him like they’re both about to run out of time.

Keith is this part of him he didn’t think he had left, the tiny bit of Takashi Shirogane that hadn’t gotten crushed by his shitty circumstances, the part that lived when the rest of him felt like it died, the person he was before he realized life sucked and people sucked even more.

“Please,” he whispers against Keith’s mouth, out of breath, chest heaving like he’s run a marathon.

Lord knows what he’s begging for. He’s still waiting to wake up from this fever-dream, to find himself back in his room surrounded by four walls that feel more and more like they’re closing in on him.

But then there’s a tentative hand on his jaw. Keith is silent as he brushes his fingers over the curves and edges of Shiro’s face, gentle like he thinks he might somehow shatter him into a million pieces. And Shiro would let him. Let Keith break him like he’s broken others before because he’s at the point where he can’t take it anymore. Now or never, right?

“Don’t,” Keith begins, voice low but strong. “let me fuck this up, Takashi.”

He’s not sure what it is, whether it’s the words or his name in Keith’s mouth, but it breaks a sob out of him, and he’s pressing his damp face into Keith’s neck and just— _breathing_. Keith holds him with an arm around his shoulder and a hand playing with the short hair at the nape of his neck, and Shiro feels fucking _weightless_.

 

 

 

 

He’s sitting outside with Pidge, chewing absently at his turkey club. Pidge is picking the tomatoes out of hers, wrinkling her nose as she pokes at her soggy bread.

It’s a nice day, surprisingly. Hot, because that’s just _Garrison_ , but it’s a comfortable hot. Not oppressive or sweltering. Just like having the sun as a soft warmth on your back. Which is honestly the only reason they’re eating outside. Matt’s finishing Montgomery’s calculus test (which he’d been sure he would bomb), and Hunk’s in the library finishing up his college essay.

Shiro gets this spike of anxiety when he thinks about it. Sure he’s been talking about college, thinking about it ever since he was old enough to, but now’s when he actually has to make a _choice_. He’s never been good with decisions, especially ones that tend to bring a lot of weight with them.

He looks at Pidge, who’s now plucking itty bity pieces of bread off to feed the tiny bird by her feet. She’s two years younger than the rest of them, meaning she won’t be graduating with them. He wonders how she'll deal with it, not having her brother or her friends around when they spend so much time together. Shiro wishes things were different, that going to college doesn’t feel so much like having to give up everything you’ve ever loved and starting over from scratch.

“…Shiro?”

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” Pidge says with a shrug. “So. Keith.”

Shiro feels the blood rushing to his cheeks. “What about him?”

“You invited him camping?”

“Kinda.”

“Hm,” Pidge says, which somehow makes him feel like he’s about to get reprimanded.

She doesn’t add anything, though, and Shiro releases a heavy breath. Keith had stuck around for a few more hours after they talked, but he’d left once Matt and the others returned.

“ _Damn_ ,” Matt had muttered, blinking at the spot Keith once occupied before him. “ _Was it something I said?_ ”

Shiro had wanted to crack a joke, really, but he couldn’t. Because he’d been too busy thinking about Keith, reminding himself that yes, this night really _had_ happened.

“You’re serious about him, aren’t you?”

There’s no emotion to Pidge’s voice, so Shiro can’t tell what she’s thinking. She looks away from her bread when Shiro takes too long to answer, raising her eyebrows. Shiro’s mouth opens and closes a few times, but no words come through.

“Yeah,” he finally gets out, the word feeling so, so heavy on his tongue.

“I trust you,” she says, picking at the bread with more force, tossing larger pieces down at the bird who hops from one bit to the next like it can’t decide what to eat first. “Him, not so much. But I know you, Shiro, and I know that you’ve got this.”

“You’re overestimating me a bit there,” he points out, and Pidge shakes her head with a fond laugh. “Hey. Thanks. I know you were just trying to protect me.”

“I’ve seen you get hurt before,” she mumbles. “And it _sucks_.”

“I know,” he says softly. “I’m gonna be okay this time. This…he’s different, Pidge.”

“I believe you,” she says, and the smile she gives him is small but means so, so much.

The lunch bell rings then, so he and Pidge gather up their things and split ways for the day. It’s Tuesday, so Shiro trudges through his last few classes and lingers awkwardly in the athletic hallway at the end of the day. The boys’ locker room feels like it’s mocking him, with its grey door and the smell of antiperspirants tinging the air.

Shiro grips the straps of his backpack hard and pushes the door open. He walks past Lotor and his gang, past his locker, past the rows of showers until he reaches Coach Iverson’s office. He’s inside looking over the game plan for their next match, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Shiro knocks tentatively on the office door. It’s open, so he takes a tiny step inside when Iverson raises his head.

“Shirogane!” he says, eyes wide. “Where the hell have you been?”

“I, uh…” Shiro trails off, mind blanking out. _Get it together_. “I’m quitting the team, Coach.”

Those aren’t the words that were supposed to come out of his mouth. Shiro flounders at himself for a moment, wondering where the hell _that_ came from. He’d really just wanted to apologize for missing the last few practices. They’d versed Central Phoenix again, and when they lost the game Shiro had honestly felt bad about it.

_You hate it. What’s the point if it doesn’t make you happy?_

Normally, Shiro would be a little bitter about hearing Ryou’s voice in his head. Especially when he’s saying that something that, frustratingly enough, makes sense. But his brother had a point when he’d said that, even though Shiro had been reluctant to agree.

Coach Iverson looks at him for a long moment. Dread swells in his Shiro’s gut and he prays to every higher being that can possibly be out there that he doesn’t have to repeat himself. He watches Iverson lean back in his chair, crossing his arms as he scans Shiro up and down.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you lasted as long as you did.”

Shiro presses his lips into a thin line. “I wasn’t the best, was I?”

“The worst player I’ve ever seen,” Iverson says, far too easily. “But you had drive. Passion. You gave everything you had.”

“I—thanks, Coach.”

Iverson waves him off. “Do me a favor. Find something you like and stick to it. You’re young. You’ve got time to figure it out.”

“Okay. Thanks again, Coach,” Shiro says with a smile. He’s got that light feeling again, like he’s floating up in the clouds or something.

Shiro steps out of the office and releases a sigh. Emptying out his locker feels strange, especially when he feels the eyes on his back.

“Hey,” Iverson shouts then, banging against a locker with a clipboard. “Keep it moving. Ten laps, let’s go!”

The team leaves the locker room with varying degrees of irritation. Shiro hands over his uniform to Iverson with a smile he hopes looks genuine.

“You’re a good kid, Shirogane,” Iverson tells him as he turns to leave. “Don’t forget that.”

Shiro’s smile widens. He steps outside and feels like a weight has been lifted off his chest.

Matt and Pidge are waiting by Michelle for Hunk when Shiro leaves the school. They both give him a confused look when he boosts himself up into the flatbed.

“Uh,” Matt begins, poking at his shoulder. “Don’t you have soccer practice?”

“Nope,” Shiro chirps, feeling too goddamn giddy. “I quit.”

“You quit?!” Pidge squeaks. “What?”

“No fucking way,” Matt says, jaw practically scraping the floor. “What happened to your rockin’ resume or whatever?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Shiro says breezily. “I still have my academic clubs.”

“Oh my god,” Pidge mutters from somewhere behind him. “The stress finally got to him. He lost his mind.”

Shiro reaches back to put her in a headlock and ruffle her hair. She screams bloody murder while Matt laughs his head off, laying flat on his back and kicking his feet up as he cackles. Shiro only stops once Pidge begins to viciously pinch his sides, but he’s still grinning when he leans back on his hands.

It’s then that he sees Keith, fresh out of track practice. He’s wearing dark sweats and a loose tee that makes him look tiny from here. Shiro cups his hands around his mouth and screams:

“Keith!”

Keith stops mid-step, head whipping towards Shiro. Matt and Pidge have gone silent behind him, and he can practically feel them staring at the back of his head. Shiro ignores them as he slides down from Michelle’s flatbed and jogs across the parking lot to Keith, whose eyes are a little wide when he looks at Shiro.

“Shirogane,” he drawls, blinking rapidly. “Why, exactly, are you screaming my name in the middle of the parking lot?”

“I quit the soccer team.”

“You—what?”

“I hated soccer,” Shiro says, and he feels himself smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. “Like, really _hated_ it.”

Keith’s expression softens. “Congrats, then.”

And then Shiro’s rocking on his toes, feeling like he just might pass out if he keeps on like this.

“Are you busy?”

“No, not really,” Keith says, lips curving up in a way that tells Shiro he knows exactly where this is going.

“You should come hang out with us,” Shiro says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. By now, Hunk has finished biology tutoring and has joined the Holt’s in staring at him like he’s a lunatic. “We have this thing where we eat at Sal’s and then—”

“Okay.”

“Wait, what?”

“I said, _okay_ ,” Keith says, crossing his arms over his chest and jutting his chin towards Michelle. “Nice ride.”

“Not mine,” Shiro says.

“I know,” Keith says, and when Shiro thinks of his mountain bike he can’t help but to feel embarrassed. “They’re staring at us.”

“They, uh, do that sometimes,” Shiro says, licking his dry lips.

Keith smirks. “You’re cute.”

And then he’s brushing past Shiro to head towards Michelle. It takes his brain a few seconds to catch up, but once it does Shiro falls into step beside Keith.

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want,” Shiro says, realizing he never really gave Keith much of a choice.

“When,” Keith begins with an incredulous laugh. “have I _ever_ done something I don’t want to?”

Ah. A solid point.

They’re standing less than a foot away from Michelle now. Hunk squeaks something about starting the car up and disappears inside. Pidge raises an eyebrow before she follows after Hunk, leaving Matt to grin at them in a way that’s actually very creepy.

“Hey,” he says, grinning lazily. “I’m Matt.”

“Keith.”

“Oh, I know,” Matt says, eyes lighting up in a way that has Shiro instantly panicking. “Our dear, dear Shiro has been crushing on you since the beginning of time.”

Keith snorts.

“Oh, I know,” Keith echoes mockingly, boosting himself up into the flatbed. He looks down expectantly at Shiro. “You coming?”

“I, um, yes, yup, coming,” Shiro blabbers out, rushing to follow.

Matt settles between them with a shit-eating smile. Shiro elbows him roughly in an attempt to get him to stop, but it’s not like anyone can ever stop Matt from embarrassing the hell out of Shiro on any given day.

“ _So_ ,” Matt drags the word out, leaning in close to Keith. “What’s the deal between you two? Friends?”

“Nah,” Keith says, squinting when the sun nails him right in the eye. “We’re way past that. Right, Takashi?”

Shiro chokes on his own spit just as Matt crows:

“ _Oh my god_ , have you been holding out on me?”

“Kill me now,” Shiro mutters, pressing his burning face into his hands.

He’s saved only by Hunk pulling up in front of Sal’s. Pidge has a mischievous grin on her face when she hops out of the passenger seat, and when she and Matt fist-bump,  Shiro’s desire for the sweet release of death increases tenfold.

“I am so sorry,” Shiro says, grunting when Keith punches his shoulder. Yep, still hurts like a motherfucking truck has slammed into his arm. They should probably work on that.

“Shut up, Shirogane,” he says. “C’mon.”

He grabs Shiro’s hand and tugs him inside. Shiro follows after him because there’s not really another option for him at the moment. Mrs. Garrett raises an eyebrow when she looks between Keith and Shiro and Shiro really, really wants to disappear into thin air.

They sit at their usual booth, just like always. It’s a little squished with the extra addition of Keith, but Shiro would be lying if he said he didn’t like the way Keith’s thigh was pressed against his own. He meets Keith’s eye after staring at their legs for a moment and feels breathless.

Keith looks relaxed, more so than Shiro’s ever seen him. He’s leaning back against the booth, watching as Matt and Pidge bicker while Hunk looks increasingly more alarmed.

“Guys, guys,” Hunk says, waving his hands. “Why don’t we just get fries?”

“Fries?” Matt huffs. “So this little _heathen_ can steal them off my plate? No thanks.”

“I’m telling Mom,” Pidge says petulantly, pouting until someone barks out a laugh that makes her sit up straight in her seat.

It takes Shiro a moment to realize the laugh had come from _Keith_. He looks a little self-conscious when they all look at him, his lips pressed into a tiny line like he’s trying to stop himself from laughing again.

“What?” he asks in a gruff voice, and Shiro wants to do something disgusting, like pinch his cheeks.

Matt raises his glass of water like he’s making a toast.

“Welcome to the fam, Keithy-boy.”

Keith wrinkles his nose.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Noted,” Matt chirps. He smirks at Shiro. “Good pick, man.”

Shiro turns away from him, feeling like he might be suffocated by his own embarrassment.

 _Sorry_ , he mouths at Keith, who flicks his ear and gives him a warm look that makes him feel like he’s melting into a puddle of goo.

Mrs. Garrett comes over to them with a curious expression on her face.

“Who’s your new friend?” she asks, looking right at Shiro.

“That’s Keith,” Hunk says, at the same time Matt coos:

“Shiro’s _boyfriend_.”

Shiro sinks down into his seat, kicking Matt in the shin as hard as he can. It doesn’t have the desired effect, because Matt just sticks his tongue out and kicks his ankle with just as much force.

He absolutely refuses to look at Keith, who he feels laughing against his side. He orders his fries in a shaking voice and attempts to drown out the voices of his friends around him.

“You know,” Hunk begins, sipping at his water. “You’re actually kind of cool. You still terrify me, but you’re alright, Keith.”

Keith looks at him for a minute.

“Thanks?”

“You’re welcome buddy,” Hunk says, beaming.

Honestly, just end him now. What else does he have to live for in this sorry life?

“Shiro, honey, can you help me with this?” Mrs. Garrett calls from the kitchen.

Shiro sighs softly and scoots out of the booth. He hesitates for a moment, wondering if he really wants to leave Keith alone with his friends, but figures there’s nothing else to be done at this point. Keith’s already been too far exposed.

“So,” Mrs. Garrett says, closing a drawer with her hip. “That’s Keith, hm?”

“Ah, yeah,” Shiro admits quietly.

“He’s cute.”

“Mrs. Garrett!”

“What?” she says, blinking innocently at him. “Don’t you think so?”

“Ugh, this is so embarrassing.”

“I’m proud of you,” Mrs. Garrett says then, reaching forward to brush his hair away from his eyes. “You’re not scared when you’re around him.”

“Really?” Shiro feels like he’s more than _scared_ whenever Keith’s in the general vicinity.

“No,” she says, smiling softly. “You look happy.”

Happy.

It’s not a foreign concept to Shiro. He’s been happy, but those moments were usually few and far between. So whenever he feels something even remotely close to happiness, he savors it.

But this—this is _different_. It’s happiness, which Shiro knows and kinda understands, but there’s something more to it. Something he doesn’t get from his family or friends. He doesn’t have a word for it, but he likes it. A whole lot.

He and Mrs. Garrett return to the table with the food, which Hunk attacks like a man who’s been starved. Shiro presses himself back into his seat beside Keith, who snags a fry off his plate and grins at the affronted expression Shiro gives him.

“You know,” he whispers when the others are occupied with whatever they’re talking about, “you’re not my boyfriend unless you take me out.”

“Huh?” Shiro turns so quickly to look at him that he nearly knocks their noses together. Keith smirks.

“Do I have to spell it out for you, Shirogane?”

“You want me to ask you out?”

“Yeah, doofus. I want you to ask me out.”

“Like, for real?”

“You’re hopeless,” Keith says, but he’s laughing. “So? You gonna make me your boyfriend or not?”

“Yes, yes, I’ll do that,” Shiro says, speaking so fast it’s a wonder Keith understands what he’s trying to say.

“Good,” Keith says, and then he’s pressing a fleeting kiss to the corner of Shiro’s mouth.

“Ah!” Pidge slaps her hands over her eyes. “Really? Right in front of my salad?”

“God, that’s not funny,” Matt says, pulling a face. “Do you even know where that’s from? Actually, don’t answer that.”

They stay at Sal’s long after their food is done, when even their dessert has been consumed hours ago. Hunk drives them back to school so Keith can pick up his bike. Matt had oh-so-considerately squeezed himself up front with Pidge and Hunk, leaving the “two lovebirds” alone.

God. Sometimes Shiro really hates that man.

“That was fun,” Keith says, hopping down and grabbing his bag. “Hey, Shiro. Thanks.”

“What?” Shiro shakes his head. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I kinda do,” Keith says, shrugging. “You’re, uh, doing a lot for me. More than anyone has in a while. So. Thank you.”

“Keith?”

“Yeah?”

“I really, really like you.”

“No shit,” Keith says with a snort. “I got that, loverboy.”

Shiro beams at him.

“See you later?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, pulling Shiro down by the front of his shirt.

Shiro feels like he’s floating away when he kisses Keith. He could probably do it for the rest of his life, honestly, but then Hunk honks the horn and they practically jump away from each other. Keith gives him another blinding smile before he walks away, and Shiro finds himself falling flat on his back.

This is insane. He has to be dreaming, right? There’s no way this is his life. Takashi Shirogane doesn’t get things like this, people like _Keith_.

And yet, here he is. Lips still tingling from that kiss, heart beating like a goddamn drum, so happy that he can feel it all the way down to his toes. He wishes, selfishly, that he could bottle this moment up, hide it away someplace no one else will be able to find it but him.

He’s still in a daze when he gets home, stumbling through the door like he’s drunk off a feeling. Aunt Mei gives him a surprised look when he slumps against the wall.

“Takashi?”

“Remember when you told me everything would work out?” he asks. She stares at him for a moment, probably trying to remember. That night flashes in Shiro’s head, the day he’d finally had enough and told her every single thing about Keith.

“I do, yes.”

He bites the inside of his cheek to hide his grin.

“I think it’s finally starting to.”

“Oh, Takashi,” she says, breathless, and when she wraps him up into a hug, Shiro closes his eyes and buries his face into her shoulder.


End file.
